


Come by it Honestly

by ladyshadowdrake



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, 魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭 | Módào Zǔshī - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù
Genre: Adventure, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:29:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26649832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyshadowdrake/pseuds/ladyshadowdrake
Summary: “You’ve been summoned, like some kind of—of demon, to a different world before and you never told me?” Jaskier hissed, shoving his shoulder hard enough to make him jolt forward. “Seems like the kind of thing that you might have shared, Geralt!”“Never came up,” Geralt said through his teeth. Across from them, the sorcerer and the necromancer were growing more tense as Jaskier’s voice rose. They seemed to be engaged in a far more quiet disagreement of their own, the sorcerer firmly keeping the necromancer behind him, while the necromancer held his arm and continued to gesture in Jaskier’s direction.“Oh!” Jaskier said with a noisy explosion of air. “It never came up! I’m so sorry I never thought to ask you if you’d been summoned to another world before! I’ll add that to my ‘getting to know you’ rotation. Where did you grow up, what do you do for a living, hey! Have you ever been summoned to another world before?”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī/Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn
Comments: 90
Kudos: 408
Collections: Witcher Big Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the 2020 Witcher Big Bang - the concept for this started out as a joke, but the more I joked about it, the more the parallels in the universes just worked so well. The respective universes are fairly nebulous and borrow across all media for each. This is pretty shameless "let's go on an adventure" fic, so just sit back and enjoy. :) 
> 
> I was somehow able to convince the AMAZING @Sweetlittlevampire over on tumbler to take on the [artwork](https://sweetlittlevampire.tumblr.com/post/630256997029281792/lightshadowverisimilitude-asked-me-if-i-could) for this unusual mashup. Please go visit on tumblr and shower with praise!!!
> 
> SO MANY THANK YOUS to my beta @eak1mouse. <3 Thank you for being so supportive!

The mist had rolled out from the water in great, blinding sheets to blot out what had been a clear day. They all knew to run from the mist. Whispers chased her as she ran, blind with both hands held out to catch against tree trunks. Spiny fingers reached out to catch at her skirts and she tried not to scream as she wrenched away from them. They might have been bushes and branches, but they might not have been. 

She had been walking the paths all her life, and she didn’t have to think about which direction she was going once her feet found the beaten-smooth track. Her clothing clung to her skin and the mist felt oily where it touched her face. 

A rush of sound like the voices of the dead all drawing in breath, and another grab, more deliberate, that caught at her sleeve. She yanked away from it, hearing the fabric tear, and something  _ whooshed _ over her head as she tripped and rolled down the path where it turned steep. 

Breaking out of the mist was like walking through a curtain. It dragged at her as she tumbled over and over, off the path and into the trees. Finally, a tree stood in her way, and she hit it hard. The air punched out of her lungs. She struggled to get it back, eyes wide and staring up at the wall of mist at the top of the path. Everyone knew that it never went any further, but she watched it, trembling and aching and full of acid that ate at her stomach and burned her throat. 

“Brother.” Her lips made the shape of the word, but her lungs refused to give up any air. “Brother. Brother.” A sob rippled over her, and she dragged her knees up to her chest. 

He didn’t come tumbling out after her, he didn’t call her name. He never would again.

~*~

“Why is it always caves?” Jaskier bitched, pebbles scattering as he slid noisily down the slope to Geralt’s side. A trickle of water sloshed down with him, and the mist laying heavy on the cave floor swirled.

Geralt filled his lungs and let them empty. He didn’t respond. It wouldn’t do any good to say, “It’s not always caves,” or “You can stay back at the inn," or “You can wait outside,” or “Stop talking.” 

“Just once, can’t it be a nice manor house?” 

In the light filtering in from the cave mouth, Geralt could see Jaskier’s face twisted as he examined his hands. With a faint look of disgust, he wiped them off on his thighs and looked up at Geralt like he expected a serious answer to his question. 

Geralt cocked an eyebrow at him. “Hmm.” 

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Do  _ not _ give me that. That one doesn’t count. It was haunted. She tried to eat my face, Geralt. My face is what gets us a room at the end of the night. It’s important.” He sketched a broad circle around his head. “This needs as much care as your swords.”

It was certainly only because his eyes were drawn to the motion that Geralt let his eyes linger on the face in question. He wasn’t sure what his own face did at that moment, but Jaskier rolled his eyes and made a gesture for them to get moving again. Geralt used to think that his face never really did anything, but Jaskier often read things in him he wasn’t comfortable with having on display. 

A flicker of nausea crawled over him. Geralt frowned. It was the third such unexplained wave of unease he’d felt since waking. He wondered idly if someone had tried to poison him the night before. He wasn’t immune to food poisoning, but his stomach was accustomed to digesting a lot worse than spoiled food. Jaskier had made no such complaints, and he didn’t think that he had eaten anything Jaskier hadn’t. The strange wave passed, and Geralt shook it off. It wasn’t debilitating, and he had a job to do.

“Stay behind me -”

“With the torch, I know,” Jaskier finished for him. He squatted down and dragged his pack off while Geralt felt at the bottles at his belt and retrieved a dose of Cat. There was only one other next to it; he would need to find a place to stop for a few days to resupply. 

The torch lit up, muted red, just enough light that Jaskier wouldn’t trip over his own feet, not enough to blind Geralt when he was under Cat’s influence. Geralt tipped the potion into his mouth, ignored the bitter mildew taste of it, and closed his eyes. It was fast-acting, and he felt it twisting his insides up almost before the last crescent of light disappeared beneath his closing eyelashes. He waited another breath for it to settle in and then opened his eyes slowly. The cave had assumed a flat, ghostly appearance in shades of grays. Where Jaskier’s torchlight touched, the gray was nearly white, and what would have been the most impenetrable shadows before were only a twilight dim. 

Cat had a slightly less intense impact on his hearing, and a completely normal breath from Jaskier sounded like someone blowing in his ear. He shook his head as if he could dislodge it, and waited through the inevitable first few moments of overload before his senses compensated and he felt almost normal. 

Without a word, he moved deeper into the cave. Jaskier gave him a few moments' head start before following, creating a small buffer of space between them that Geralt appreciated. The cave was like many others he’d gone picking through over his career. This one was wet, rife with moss and mold, smelled pungently of bat dung, wet stone, wet earth, and rot. The floor was littered with human bones, only visible under Cat’s influence. Likely, Jaskier wouldn’t even notice them in his red firelight. 

Geralt did not point them out, but he stepped around them where he could. Jaskier followed exactly in his footsteps without having to be told why. The main cavern narrowed to a thin choke point that Geralt examined carefully before turning sideways to slip into. Jaskier waited. It had only taken one panicky moment of both of them lodged into a tight space and needing to be out of it in a hurry for Jaskier to learn to let Geralt explore uncomfortable spaces first. 

It wasn’t the tightest space he’d ever been in. In some places, he could have turned and walked forward, and he only felt the rock scraping at front and back for an arm's length before he was through into a wider cavern. 

“Come through,” Geralt called back. He waited only until he heard the scuff of Jaskier’s boots on the rock before moving away from the mouth of the passageway and exploring the edges of the cavern. 

More bones, older, smaller, many broken. Whatever had made the cave its home had once dragged its prey through that narrow opening. Mostly children, if Geralt had to take a guess, or else adults who had not been in one piece at the time. He pulled one glove off and crouched to pick up a femur from the top of a pile. It was no longer than his forearm and gnawed at one end. The bone itself was pitted and brittle. His quarry had taken to eating its meals outside in the main cavern. As its meals had gotten progressively larger, that made sense. It was safer behind the deterrent of the narrow passage, but dragging an adult male through that space would have been inconvenient. 

“I hate caves,” Jaskier grumbled in a whisper, stumbling out of the passage and pulling his bag out behind him. His torchlight flickered madly off the walls, temporarily bleaching the walls white.

“Speak normally,” Geralt told him. “It’s more grating when you whisper.” 

“I do beg your pardon,” Jaskier said with mock politeness. He made a flourishing bow that Geralt saw out of only the corner of his eyes and ignored. Jaskier was only being bitchy because Geralt had rousted him out of a warm bed two hours before dawn and dragged him out on the road without breakfast only to make the point that Jaskier was welcome to stay behind while he worked. It was an argument between them that would likely never reach a conclusion. 

From the smell of the place, his prey hadn’t been through in a few hours. If he was lucky, it would be deeper in, several hours into sleep and easy to dispatch. He stood and led the way further in, following the strongest scent marker to a left-hand passage that was wide enough to drive a cart through. 

The passage continued for another fifteen minutes of careful walking, Jaskier pointedly not narrating his thoughts, and Geralt paying close attention to the uneven floor and the notes of blood and musk in the air that grew stronger as they continued. The scent trail curved around a wall and then went over the side of a ledge and continued directly down a vertical wall into darkness so complete that even his enhanced vision could only penetrate down a dozen body lengths. 

Geralt sighed and crouched down to peer into the darkness. “It can’t ever be easy.” 

“Sometimes it is,” Jaskier said cheerfully.

Geralt grunted rather than replying. He made a survey of the shelf, looking for a gentler way down, and heard Jaskier doing the same behind him. 

“Oh, look!” 

Geralt turned obliquely to avoid blinding himself on the torch, and found Jaskier with one hand on his hip, looking up at a dead teleportation ring clinging to the edge of the shelf.

“Great,” Geralt said. He looked over the side again. Maybe the power crystal would be crumbled into dust, and they wouldn’t be able to activate the damn thing. As he drew closer to the ring, he could already tell that it was still active. There was a sharp ozone smell about magical artefacts that had power, though the ring’s scent was faint under the decaying vegetation, even to Geralt’s senses. It was not as old as many he’d seen still in working condition, but Geralt guessed it had been a decade or more since it had been used.

Turning his attention to the wall, he found what he expected: the power crystal set into its socket, cold, but still humming faintly in anticipation. Geralt sighed. Behind him, Jaskier snorted, but he stepped away from the ring without having to be told, and Geralt took a breath to center himself, fingers crooking automatically into position. Aard was easier to use as a punch of power, but imbuing power into an object required a more delicate touch. He pressed it out as a whisper rather than a shout, and the crystal flickered with light. 

Geralt closed his eyes moments before the crystal flared to life and the portal opened with a  _ snap _ of displaced air. When he opened his eyes again, Jaskier was peering over the edge of the shelf. 

“There it is,” he said, pointing needlessly at the bright star of the corresponding portal at the bottom of the drop.

It looked to be a good five hundred feet down, putting paid to Geralt’s notion of insisting on climbing down despite the portal. “Damn sorcerers,” he muttered.

The portal’s light illuminated just enough space around it that Geralt could see there was solid footing immediately beyond. He held up a hand and Jaskier moved the torch further away. Geralt squinted. He could just make out vague shapes in the darkness, forms of rocks and walls, and something tall and slender, perhaps a pillar. It wasn’t unusual to find the abandoned homes of magic users taken over by monsters in their absence. He just hoped it was only the lone hunter he was expecting and not a nest. 

Another wave of unexplained dizziness and nausea tugged at him, stronger than the others. He stopped, one hand coming to rest on his gut. 

“Big bad witcher gets sick with nerves at the thought of a portal,” Jaskier teased, but his voice wasn’t unkind. “You want me to go first this time?” 

Geralt glared at him. He dropped his hand from his gut, drew his silver sword, and stepped into the swirling darkness. As usual, there was the fish-hook sense of something grabbing onto his stomach and pulling it out ahead of his body, and then he was stepping through to the other side. 

The nausea came back, strong enough to make his mouth water threateningly. He moved immediately away from the portal and tried to both survey the cave floor and focus on not giving up his breakfast. Jaskier stepped out behind him, unaffected by the teleportation, but quiet as he held his torch down low and waited for Geralt to give him a signal that it was all clear. 

Geralt didn’t open his mouth, afraid that he really would be sick if he did. His vision swam, the dead grays morphing for a blinding moment into flickering moonlit shadows, the slender column to his back momentarily taking on the texture of bark, shapes in the distance seeming to be branches and roots and leaves. He shook his head and blinked several times. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier hissed, concern threading through his voice. 

Humming so he wouldn’t have to muster up speech, Geralt focused on the floor until the weird forest-in-moonlight pattern faded. The nausea passed. He looked back at the teleportation ring. Some kind of booby trap? A disorientation targeted at magic users? That wouldn’t explain his earlier symptoms, but one could have exacerbated the other. 

He was moments from suggesting that Jaskier go back up to the ledge to wait for him when a shift of rocks to the left jerked his attention around. Jaskier stepped back so he was a single quick motion from tumbling into the portal and up to escape. Geralt slid his right foot out to center his balance and peered into the Cat-pale surroundings, looking for any irregular shapes, any motion. 

A blur accompanied a snarling gurgle of noise. An undefinable shape rushed at him, low to the ground and hunched like something that should have been on two feet had learned later to move on four. Geralt brought his sword down. He felt the resistance of it meeting flesh and a pungent bog-water scent gushed out. 

Geralt gagged on the overwhelming stench. He dodged clumsily to avoid a flash of long claws, feeling them just catch at his pant leg. The thing shrieked. It stopped moving just long enough for Geralt to make out basic details - small, round head, misshapen spine, stick-thin arms that were too long - a hag of some kind. It was unlikely that it had any friends, but Geralt took three steps backward and let his eyes make another quick pass of the round chamber. 

It was a smaller space than he had originally thought: uneven shapes that may have been furniture once, tumbled rocks, piles of bones, not many places to hide. Silent except Jaskier’s noisy breathing and the hag’s angry muttering. It obviously had no weapons and no magic, or it would have thrown either. Geralt should have been able to snap its head off with a single swing, but his balance was off, the floor seemed to be sloping off to one side. 

Spitting out a hiss, the hag turned on Jaskier as the easier prey. Even as Geralt darted after it, Jaskier thrust his torch at it, and it howled, turning aside to run. Whatever else it was, Geralt knew from the scent trail that it could climb the wall. For it to make its nest in such an inaccessible place, it had to be an accomplished rock climber. Geralt did not want to have to chase it up the wall. He scooped up a rock and threw it hard at the hag’s retreating back. The rock hit with a solid  _ crack _ . 

Enraged, the hag wheeled on him. He fended off the claws again, and got another burst of nausea-inducing stench for his efforts. A strange ringing took up residence between his ears, and then his vision stuttered. For the space of a startled breath, the trees loomed up again, obscuring the cave and the hag and Jaskier. 

Fire blossomed over one thigh. Geralt grunted, automatically dodging backward and cutting his blade through the air. The hag’s triumphant caw turned to a bellow of pain. Something wet hit the cave floor. Geralt’s stomach gave a sharp twist and he spat out a bitter mouthful of bile. Around him, the cave flickered brighter, the forest at dawn, and he gasped at the dazzling burst of light. 

The injured hag came rushing once more. Geralt had certainly severed at least a hand, if not most of its arm, and it wouldn’t survive much longer, but such creatures were often the most dangerous in those last, furious moments. Geralt tried to focus, but another flash of morning sunlight punched a sharp exhale out of him. He struck blindly, stumbling backward. Somewhere behind him, Jaskier called out his name. 

His sword met stinking flesh again, and the hag’s screaming cut off abruptly. Geralt collided with a warm shape, and then momentum carried them both back through the teleportation ring. 


	2. Chapter 2

Wei Wuxian twirled Chenqing between his fingers as they walked. Lan Wangji looked at him sideways, eyes drawn by the movement, but he didn’t comment on it. There were thirteen Lan rules relating to “frivolous motion,” none in favor, so Wei Wuxian tried to make himself stop. They’d only gone another couple steps before it was spinning again, and several more before Wei Wuxian realized it. 

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian said, turning to walk backwards. He immediately tripped on a rock in the road. Lan Wangji’s hand shot forward to grab his wrist, tugging him back up almost before he’d begun to fall. Despite the near disaster, Wei Wuxian resumed walking backwards so he could see Lan Wangji’s face. “Lan Zhan, tell me something about the time I was gone.” 

Lan Wangji glanced at him, and then away. His jaw tightened at  _ when I was gone _ , and then relaxed. He looked back to Wei Wuxian expectantly.

“How many monsters did you hunt?” Wei Wuxian asked, neatly skipping over the reaction. He couldn’t say  _ during the sixteen years I was dead,  _ so even if  _ while I was gone _ sounded inadequate, it would have to do. 

“Three hundred and ten night hunts,” Lan Wangji told him with no particular emphasis. 

Wei Wuxian stopped walking while he mulled over the number. It was almost unfathomable. Even ambitious cultivators rarely went on more than four or five in a year. He understood why Jiang Cheng had said Lan Wangji had a reputation for appearing amidst chaos. Lan Wangji had continued walking while Wei Wuxian did the math in his head and came out to ‘not a lot of rest,’ so Wei Wuxian had to turn and hurry to catch up. 

“Why so many?” 

Lan Wangji hesitated. “People needed help.” 

“Ah,” Wei Wuxian said, dissatisfied with the answer for as much as it was probably as true as anything. He eyed Lan Wangji speculatively, considering how to pry the real reason out of him, but Lan Wangji’s shoulders were tense in anticipation of further questions. Wei Wuxian decided to let it drop for the moment and he saw Lan Wangji relax gradually in response. 

They turned a corner in the road and all but stumbled into a small village. The trees were so dense on either side of the road that Wei Wuxian hadn’t even noticed they were coming up on an inhabited area. 

A crowd was gathered a little ways down the road, talking in hushed voices around a woman and a young girl kneeling in front of a simple thatched-roof house.

Before Wei Wuxian could even speculate on the issue, Lan Wangji had sped his steps subtly to approach the crowd. As they got closer, Wei Wuxian could hear the woman sobbing. In her arms, the girl was silent and still, and she had that faraway look in her eyes that Wei Wuxian had seen too many times during the war.

“What has happened?” Lan Wangji asked quietly of one of the men at the outskirts of the crowd.

“Are you stupid?” the man exploded, rounding on them. He stopped when he realized who he was speaking to. His eyes went comically wide. “You-You’re Hanguang-jun, aren’t you?” 

Wei Wuxian blinked in surprise. It wouldn’t be at all unusual for a cultivator to recognize the Second Jade of Lan, but people not directly involved with the cultivation world generally did not know one cultivator from another, with few exceptions. Even at the height of his own infamy, Wei Wuxian could have walked boldly into any non-cultivator town without turning a single head. 

He looked to Lan Wangji to see how he was handling being recognized, but he seemed accustomed to it. He only nodded. At the sound of his name, several others had turned around, and a rash of whispers ran through the crowd. 

“I knew you would hear of us eventually and come,” the first man said, tears clearly shining in his eyes. “You have to help us!”

The man stooped as though to go to his knees. Lan Wangji caught him by one arm to stop him, frowning. 

“This is the territory of LanlingJin Sect,” he said, “Have you made a petition to Carp Tower?”

“Many times,” the man said. Behind him, several others were nodding their heads vigorously. “We are only a small village on an unremarkable mountain with no riches. Some cultivators have come, and we have even paid some, but no one has been able to defeat this monster that plagues us. Our petitions to Carp Tower go unanswered.”

“What kind of creature is this?” Wei Wuxian asked curiously. They certainly didn’t know  _ him _ , but apparently he kept good enough company to get a respectful bow and not a single question about his identity.

“No one knows! It haunts a lake at the top of the mountain, taking people who come too close. A sudden mist rolls in, and anyone trapped inside it never comes out again.” He pointed to the sobbing mother. “Her children were playing too close. Her son will never come home again.” 

At this, the mother let out a loud wail. She wrapped her arms more tightly around the girl and rocked. The man winced at his own careless words. 

“The mist used to only touch the banks of the lake, but now it extends far down the path.”

“Why does anyone ever go there if something is taking people?” Wei Wuxian asked curiously.

“We need the clay from the banks of the lake. It is our whole industry. We try to be careful, and always send watchers to warn if the mist rises, but it's coming more and more often, and it stretches further and further from the lake. Eventually, it will swallow our whole village.”

“How long has this been happening?” Lan Wangji asked.

“It’s been like this as long as anyone can remember. A long time ago, there was a man who lived outside our village, a rogue cultivator. He summoned a demon white dog, and it laid a curse on the whole mountain before it killed him and left.”

Wei Wuxian gulped automatically. A demon dog? Weren’t regular dogs bad enough?

“I will look,” Lan Wangji said after a moment’s pause, his hand hovering at the spirit bag at his waist. He turned his eyes to Wei Wuxian with a curiously nervous expression, as though Wei Wuxian might protest. 

“Thank you,” the man said. The call went around the crowd, growing louder,  _ thank you, thank you, Hanguang-jun, thank you. _

Lan Wangji looked highly uncomfortable with the continued gratitude and turned his face away. Wei Wuxian stepped up between him and the crowd. 

“Can anyone tell us anything else about this monster?”

“Old Chen is gone!” someone shouted from down the street. Younger kids had gone running door to door after Lan Wangji had been identified, and one of them came back panting, repeating herself again. 

“Who…?” Wei Wuxian prompted when a general round of groans and angry mutters went around the crowd. 

“Old Chen,” another man said. “He was a cultivator in his youth.”

“Not a very good one, or the Jin sect wouldn’t have kicked him out,” someone muttered.

“He said he was going to go up to the lake and summon the demon white dog. Said he got some spell off a crazy kid he met down south when he took some pots to market. He was going to sacrifice his body and put a curse on the demon to force it to kill the monster.”

Wei Wuxian exchanged a look with Lan Wangji. He gave the villagers a reassuring smile and asked, “I don’t suppose anyone knew what that crazy kid’s name was…?”

“Mo something,” a woman offered. “It was when Old Chen took the pots to Yangxi town, they’re the nobles in that area. Like some nobleman’s kid, crazy or not, would have given a spell to someone like Old Chen.”

“Ah, I see,” Wei Wuxian said. He felt the sudden tension behind him as the intelligence sank in. “We’ll just go look and see if we can’t send him back down the mountain, hm?"

Heads bobbed up and down in agreement and there were several admonishments to be careful sprinkled in with fervent encouragement to find and kill the monster, all over the young mother's continuing sobs. 

Wei Wuxian looked over his shoulder at Lan Wangji, who nodded to indicate he was ready to leave. To the crowd, Wei Wuxian said, "We'll do our best."

He stepped back, but before he could turn around, he felt a hand tangle in the back of his robes, and then he was being lifted into the air on Bichen. 

~*~

They found the lake easily, a sparkling blue gem set in a steep bowl of a valley, but there was no mist to be seen. The clay quarry was a scar in the almost perfectly symmetrical valley, but the slopes were otherwise only sparsely coated in vegetation, and empty of any human presence. 

Holding Wei Wuxian tight, Lan Wangji swooped lower just to be sure, and then climbed back out of the valley to the top of the path. They landed and started down the path immediately, spreading out to either side in case the old man had forged further into the trees for his ritual. If the monster was as dangerous as the villagers had claimed, he might already be dead. 

The wind picked up, and Wei Wuxian stopped, hearing a faint tinkle of bells and a rustling noise. He got Lan Wangji’s attention with a short whistle and led the way off the poorly maintained path and into the surrounding woods. They spread out as the sound grew more distinctive, just in case Old Chen had managed to summon up a demon and offer it his body after all. 

Pushing through thick bushes and squeezing around trees grown close together, Wei Wuxian almost tripped right into the array. 

Old Chen had chosen a flat boulder that sat only a tall step above the surrounding forest floor and had another boulder looming threateningly over it. It was wide enough for two grown men to lay across, and currently soaked in the blood of at least three roosters, judging by the corpses discarded on the ground. 

The array itself was unfortunately familiar, and the old man had been careful with the symbols and the talismans dangling from the higher boulder. Old Chen himself sat in the center of the array, his withered hands resting on his knees, back straight and solid, lips moving as he muttered the incantations. 

“Hey… Old Chen?” Wei Wuxian called quietly. He didn’t want to startle the man when he was obviously in the middle of the spell. Powerful spells had a habit of backlashing spectacularly if they weren’t either completed or wound down properly. 

The old man opened his eyes, but he didn’t stop the spell. He glared at Wei Wuxian fiercely and jerked his head in an obvious order to leave. 

“I’m afraid I can’t go,” Wei Wuxian said just as Lan Wangji landed next to him, having flown over the trees rather than struggling through them like Wei Wuxian. “Let’s wind this spell down together, okay?” 

The man shook his head sharply, and then turned away from Wei Wuxian to concentrate on what he was doing. His eyes widened again when Lan Wangji stepped into his field of vision, but if he would have stopped for Lan Wangji, they would never know. Even as Lan Wangji opened his mouth to speak, Old Chen uttered the final couplet, and a silence descended. 

It wasn’t simply quiet as it would have been if all the birds had stopped singing at once, it was the deep pressure that built before a roll of thunder, the silence of being plunged deep under water where the only sound was the rushing of blood frantically pumping. 

Wei Wuxian certainly didn’t remember any of that from when  _ he’d _ been resurrected. He found himself covering his ears as if that could block out the pressure. Just when it was building to the point where he couldn’t have held a scream in any longer, there was a great  _ clap _ , a  _ whoosh _ of air, and then Wei Wuxian’s ears popped. 

Lan Wangji spun, and Wei Wuxian followed the line of his gaze to see another array on a neighboring boulder glowing a sickly violet. A rend opened up in the air above the array, and then something with too many limbs tumbled out of it. 

~*~

As uncomfortable as portal travel was, it generally only lasted the length of two quick heart beats. When the untethered sensation of falling through nothing extended from two heart beats to four, to thirty, to what seemed like hours, Geralt found himself twisting, seeking purchase. The only thing to hold onto was Jaskier, and they clutched helplessly at each other.

Abruptly, sound. A low  _ fwoom _ - _ fwoom-fwoom _ like a massive heart beat, and then a rush of sharp cold, and they were tumbling through air. The light was blinding, bright enough and sudden enough to make Geralt shout as they rolled together in a heap.

When they came to rest against something solid, Geralt stumbled immediately to his feet. He had his eyes tightly closed to block out the nauseating light, and reached out blindly for the support of what turned out to be a tree trunk. On the ground, Jaskier vomited violently. Geralt leaned down to feel for him, and relaxed when his hand encountered the curved line of his shoulders. At least he was up on his knees.

Geralt moved unsteadily away from the support of the tree, putting some distance between himself, the stench of vomit, and the sound of Jaskier moaning between retches so he could identify where they were and if they were alone.

With his eyes closed, his sense of hearing and smell sharpened. It took more effort than it would have normally to parse out the wild influx of stimulus, but he catalogued his surroundings. Wet vegetation, damp earth, thin air, and - breathing. Geralt turned slowly, focusing in on the sound - three others beside Jaskier, all keeping very still.

The wind shifted, and it blew a subtle stink of death overlaid by the sharp fragrance of magic. 

_ A necromancer, just what I need. Smells human.  _

His silver blade was miraculously still in his hand. He quickly resheathed the sword, drew his steel blade, and turned to keep himself between the necromancer and Jaskier, still moaning on the ground. He reached back with one hand to feel for the potions at his belt, but a rustle of cloth and a flutter of movement to his left jerked his attention sideways. He shifted his weight, spun through two great strides, and brought his sword around and down toward the necromancer’s neck. 

The necromancer barked out an exclamation of shock, but Geralt’s blade never landed. A wave of force - not unlike Aard, but accompanied by a discordant jangle of strings - slammed into his blade and knocked it off course. 

Geralt moved with it, tucking into a roll that made the inside of his head spin. He came back to his feet and ducked low to avoid a second wave that scythed over his head. The third person still hadn’t moved, but the other two were the more immediate threat. He waited for and tumbled away from the next strike, coming up with his fingers pulled into his palm. He released Aard in the direction of the strikes and was rewarded with a riot of strings and the sound of feet dragging through the earth.

Far too close to Jaskier, the necromancer started to play a flute. The notes fluttered out, light as butterflies, but Geralt could smell the oily stink of black magic on them. He rushed the necromancer, who broke off his playing with another short exclamation and leaped backwards to avoid Geralt’s swing. 

Spinning low to the ground, Geralt flung one hand out and thrust Yrden into the soil. He felt the trap snap up around them and took another swing at the necromancer, who shouted something in a language that pricked at Geralt’s ears as he slid hastily away. The language sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it. 

Within the tight confines of the trap, the necromancer had little chance of dodging him. Geralt reversed the grip on his sword and snapped an elbow forward. To his surprise, he met a barrier that gave the air a consistency like wet sap, and then just barely brought his guard down to block a palm strike aimed at his chest. 

The necromancer's open palm hit his arm instead. It was searing hot, and packed enough of a punch to drive him out of the trap. At a whistle of air behind him, Geralt turned to face the other opponent, blocking a sword strike that would have taken him through the heart. He pushed the blade off and countered with a spinning swing that was dodged with a neat hop. Their blades connected again, and Geralt could feel how slender the other weapon was in comparison to his own, but it didn’t feel fragile. He swept the lighter blade aside and put all his weight behind a solid jab to his attacker’s gut. 

He felt soft cloth and solid muscle under his knuckles, and then an explosion of air ghosting across his cheek. This one smelled faintly of the same necromantic energy, but more strongly of snow and frozen rock with a sharp tang of magic underneath. 

A necromancer and some kind of ice sorcerer, both of them using music like a weapon, and at least one of them an accomplished swordsman. Geralt pressed his momentary advantage while the sorcerer was stunned by the punch. Behind him, the flute started playing again. Geralt could feel the magic reaching for him, tugging and sliding and whispering in his ear. He shook his head to clear the buzzing and aimed a strike for the sorcerer’s gut.

To his great shock, the sorcerer spun away and then flew straight upwards. Geralt heard the flutter of cloth a dozen feet above his head. He rolled away immediately, fetching up hard against a tree, and then sliding down a short slope into a ditch. Keeping an ear out for the sorcerer’s position, Geralt took advantage of the brief moment of cover. He felt at his belt for the slender, straight vial of Golden Honey, and then tore the cork out with his teeth and spat it aside.

The potion went down smoothly, leaving only a faint coating of sweetness on his tongue. His chest warmed as the potion went to work, and then grew hot, and then his entire body flushed with scalding heat. In the space of a breath, the heat faded. He opened his eyes slowly, and just in time to see a mass of white fabric descending on him from above. He leaped back up the short slope, getting back to level ground just as the sorcerer landed with surprising grace in the ditch. 

He twisted out of the way of the sword flying after him, and then turned to meet his opponent, only to find the space empty. The sword curved around in midair and swooped back at him, glowing faintly blue. Geralt knocked it aside, and then swept up a rock and flung it hard at the necromancer, still weaving his magic with his flute. The man used the flute to knock the rock aside and shouted something at Geralt, looking ludicrously offended. 

The sorcerer flew out of the ditch and took the sword out of the air. They exchanged another dozen quick strikes. Geralt managed to pull his blade back to slice open the sorcerer’s upper arm, and the sorcerer retaliated with a stab to the gut that would have eviscerated Geralt if not for a quick application of Quen that stopped the blade a hairsbreadth from his skin. 

The sorcerer took another spinning leap into the air. Geralt reached up to grab a handful of white fabric and yanked him hard back to the earth. He landed with an explosion of breath, eyes wide, and then Geralt spun his sword over and stabbed down toward his chest. 

From where he was still held in the magical trap, the necromancer shouted. The sorcerer rolled out of the way, twisting to get one hand on the ground to push himself out of Geralt’s reach. 

Geralt straightened, breathing hard, and the sorcerer landed just outside the magical trap beside the necromancer. A natural pause to the fight fell, and they stared at each other warily. The two men were tall and slender with jet black hair and eyes that slanted upwards like an elves, but their ears were no more pointed than Geralt's own. The necromancer was dressed in dark robes with accents of red at his wrists and a red ribbon holding his hair up away from his face, while the sorcerer nearly glowed in flowing white and pale blue with a thin blue ribbon across his forehead and a silver ornament in his hair. 

The sorcerer’s eyes were Witcher-gold, but he carried only the one blade, and Geralt had never heard of a Witcher school that fought like he did or carried only steel. He did not wear a Witcher’s medallion, but there was a cord dangling from his waist with a disc of milky white stone at the end, etched in a design Geralt couldn’t make out. 

Between them and off to Geralt’s right, Jaskier moaned loudly and stumbled up to his feet. 

“Geralt… where the fuck are we?” he asked, drawing his sleeve across his mouth and peering, bleary-eyed, at the two strangers. “Who the hell are you?” he asked them. 

The two men exchanged a silent glance. The necromancer tilted his head slightly, turning his ear toward Jaskier as if straining to hear him. He said something hesitantly in that same language that pulled at some distant memory in Geralt. 

Frowning, Geralt side-stepped to put Jaskier behind him. He looked cautiously around, but there was nothing remarkable about the forest, just gnarled pine trees and underbrush. 

His eyes caught on a flutter of motion, and he finally spotted the third person. He was an old man sitting on a large, flat rock with strings of paper waving over his head. He was slack-jawed in shock and staring at Geralt wide-eyed. 

A short ways from the old man was another flat rock. Geralt could just make out a design painted on it, and frowned. He kept the sorcerer and necromancer in sight as he edged toward it, Jaskier automatically moving with him without being told. The sorcerer tensed, sword coming up in a guard position, but he didn’t move to attack. Geralt guessed there were only another few moments left on his trap before he would have to worry about them both again. 

He gazed at the design drawn out on the rock and the memory finally clicked into place. 

“Not again,” he breathed, and then looked over at the old man in his circle. Geralt wracked his brain for the language, but all he could remember was, “Fuck you.” 


	3. Chapter 3

“Not again?” Jaskier repeated. “Not  _ again?” _

Geralt hummed an affirmative and kept his attention on the sorcerer and necromancer. The old man had obviously been the summoner, but from the dumbfounded look on his face, he may have been doing so against his will. To be on the safe side, Geralt angled his body so he could keep all three of them in sight. 

The trap broke with an audible  _ pop _ of released pressure. The necromancer looked down and then took a step over the ring of soil and dead vegetation that had gathered around the trap. Keeping his eyes on Geralt, he crouched down and cautiously felt at the ground, flicking away dirt and leaves to check underneath. 

Standing back up, he said something to the sorcerer, who replied with a wordless hum of noise. The necromancer tilted his head curiously and took a step forward, holding both hands out with his flute cradled against the base of his thumb. He spoke very slowly and cautiously, eyes locking onto Jaskier. 

Geralt stepped sideways automatically to block his line of sight, holding one arm out to keep Jaskier behind him. The sorcerer caught the necromancer’s arm to prevent him from advancing any further, moving to keep his sword angled between Geralt and the necromancer. 

“Do you understand what they’re saying?” Jaskier asked softly. 

Geralt shook his head, but as they started to talk again, the sounds jostled more memories loose, gaining further familiarity.

“You’ve been here before, I take it?” 

Geralt grunted for an answer, but Jaskier poked him hard in the side. He elaborated, “Once. Maybe… twelve years ago. Didn’t stay long.”

Jaskier rose up on his toes to see over Geralt’s shoulder, the sudden movement making both of their attackers tense. Taking no notice, Jaskier peered at the bloody rings around the old man. “Is that a summoning circle?” 

“Hmm.” 

“Did they… did they  _ summon _ us?” 

Most likely they had summoned  _ Geralt _ and Jaskier had just been pulled along for the ride, but that hardly made a difference in their situation. He nodded. 

“Where the hell are we?” Jaskier’s voice rose sharply in irritation and he moved like he was going to go ask the men who had attacked them in the first place. 

Geralt shoved him back. “Different world,” he said. “Stay behind me.” 

“Different—You’ve been  _ summoned _ , like some kind of—of demon, to a different  _ world _ before and you never told me?” Jaskier hissed, shoving his shoulder hard enough to make him jolt forward. “Seems like the kind of thing that you might have shared, Geralt!”

“Never came up,” Geralt said through his teeth. Across from them, the sorcerer and the necromancer were growing more tense as Jaskier’s voice rose. They seemed to be engaged in a far more quiet disagreement of their own, the sorcerer firmly keeping the necromancer behind him, while the necromancer held his arm and continued to gesture in Jaskier’s direction. 

“Oh!” Jaskier said with a noisy explosion of air. “It never came up! I’m so sorry I never thought to ask you if you’d been  _ summoned to another world before _ ! I’ll add that to my ‘getting to know you’ rotation. Where did you grow up, what do you do for a living, hey! Have you ever been summoned to another world before?”

The sorcerer stepped forward abruptly and Jaskier took a reflexive step backwards while Geralt adjusted his grip on his weapon. The man’s expression was placid, but his lips were tugged downward at the corners. He lowered his blade very slowly so that it pointed to the forest floor. He met Geralt’s eyes, some warning playing across his expression. He brought the first two fingers of his right hand up to his forehead. A subtle blue glow gathered around the digits, and then he pointed sharply at Geralt.

Coolness spread out across Geralt’s forehead and he felt the gentle prickles of someone else’s will trying to pry into his mind. Throwing up mental shields that he had rarely needed outside of Witcher training, he thrust his hand out, fingers automatically curving into the familiar shape of Axii. It hammered into the other man, and he stumbled backwards, golden eyes going wide as Geralt’s will battered down his mental defenses and took root there. 

The sorcerer swayed, eyes going glassy. Behind him, the necromancer shouted. He grabbed the sorcerer’s arm and shook him hard, but Geralt had a firm hold on his mind, and he only jerked in the other man’s hand like a doll. Geralt tugged, and the sorcerer took an unsteady step forward. His mind was a beautifully organized place, cool and strictly regulated with a core at the center of all the tumult Geralt would have expected in a human’s mind: a fury that was strong enough to take Geralt’s breath away swirling protectively around something much softer. 

It was a mind that belonged to someone both exceptionally intelligent and fiercely honorable, untainted by the rot that he associated with true dark magic. There was nothing like words that Geralt could understand, but he nonetheless knew that there was no malice in him. 

A flash of movement drew Geralt’s attention. The necromancer reached down to take the sword out of the sorcerer’s hand, taking two long steps and tossing the sword clear. His free hand came back, wrist twisting through a complicated dance. Geralt brought his guard up, but when the necromancer slammed his hand forward, fire bloomed over his ribs and he found himself sailing through the air to land hard against a tree trunk. His concentration broke, and Axii released as he tumbled back down to earth. 

Geralt hit the ground at an awkward angle and rolled quickly away, pushing the screaming complaints of his body aside and refocusing on his opponent. There was a quick shuffle of movement, and then the necromancer made a startled noise. He froze as Jaskier’s arm came around his throat and pulled back. 

Holding a thin stiletto against the underside of the necromancer’s chin, Jaskier called, “Geralt?” 

“Alright,” Geralt said, pushing himself slowly to his feet. 

The sorcerer shook his head roughly to clear the lingering effects of Axii from his mind. He looked around as though in a daze, and then his eyes widened on Jaskier holding the necromancer captive. He started forward, but Jaskier pulled his hostage back and made a  _ tsk _ ing noise that stopped him in his tracks. 

“Don’t hurt him,” Geralt said. He resheathed his blade and took quick stock of himself as he crossed over to the sorcerer. The man watched him warily, eyes flicking between him and Jaksier in obvious calculation. Geralt held his empty hands out demonstratively and stopped within easy reach. 

They were nearly of a height, though Geralt outweighed him substantially. He was broader than his deceptively delicate clothing suggested, however, and Geralt watched for any quick motion. As well as he handled himself with a sword, Geralt didn’t want to try hand-to-hand with him. The sorcerer eyed him back in return, quick flicks of his gaze taking in weapons and tools before it settled on his amulet. A small frown furrowed the space between his eyebrows, and then he looked up again so their eyes met.

The last time someone had summoned Geralt, they had done a more thorough job. He had gone to bed in a stable with the rain pattering the roof, and woken up in a cave, naked as the day he was born and trapped in a circle. The man who had summoned him had seemed at turns disappointed, elated, cajoling, and furious, alternately shouting and crooning at Geralt in his strange language. Geralt had simply waited as a candle just outside the circle had slowly melted. It had taken hours, but as soon as the wax had bisected the thick band of blood describing the outside of his prison, the circle had shattered.

Geralt looked over at the old man, sitting rabbit-still in the middle of the circle, afraid to draw their attention. The sorcerer followed his gaze without turning. He said nothing, back straightening under Geralt’s regard. 

That first time, eventually two women had found him. They had argued over him and stood in his path when he'd tried to leave the cave. One of them had even effortlessly thrown him back against a wall when he tried to move them out of his way. Over the week that they'd held him there, he’d picked up a little of the language while they’d poured over the summoner’s notes. Eventually, one of them had opened a portal to send him home.

Both of them had been dressed in white, and the fanciful cloud pattern on the sorcerer’s robes was abruptly familiar. 

“Yi,” he said, finally summoning up her name. “Lan Yi.” 

The sorcerer’s eyes widened. To their left, the necromancer said something in shock, repeating the name. 

Geralt sighed. He pointed to the empty circle where the portal had hovered, and then pointed at the sorcerer’s chest. The man followed the line of his finger with his eyes, but did not move. 

“What are you doing?” Jaskier asked, his voice immediately getting the sorcerer’s undivided attention.

“Trying to get him to send us home.” He put his fingertips on his chest and said, “Geralt of Rivia.” 

The sorcerer’s eyes moved to the Wolf medallion on his chest. He looked consideringly at Geralt again. 

“Geralt,” Geralt repeated, touching above the medallion. He pointed again at the sorcerer. 

“Lan Wangji,” he said, very slowly. Flicking a glance at the necromancer, he put his fingertips back to his forehead. The same blue glow gathered to them and he looked at Geralt questioningly. 

Geralt made an unhappy noise and shifted his weight backwards. If Lan Yi had been a rose, she had been more thorn than petal, and Geralt had felt that she had not helped him for his sake as much as to get him out of her hair. For all that, she had seemed honorable in her ill-tempered way, and Geralt didn't have many choices if he wanted to get home. He nodded reluctantly. 

The sorcerer turned his hand around carefully and directed his fingers to Geralt’s forehead. It was an effort not to resist that cool power sliding into his thoughts. It probed carefully around the edges of Geralt’s mind, likely making the same examination of him that he had made of Lan Wangji earlier. After a moment, the stream abruptly widened and Geralt stumbled back under it, pressure building inside his skull. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier shouted. “Tell him to stop!”

The pressure released, sending Geralt to one knee. His head swam as though he were drunk in a crowded room, voices whispering to him from a dozen angles, images flickering across his mind too quickly to catch. Abruptly, the flow ceased, leaving him gasping for breath and his heartbeat pounding in his ears. 

“Geralt!”

Geralt waved at Jaskier, shaking his head and trying to bring his eyes into focus. The sorcerer had taken several cautious steps backwards, though all Geralt could see of him in the moment was a sliver of white shoes and the hem of his white robes. 

“Lan Zhan, are you okay?” 

The words came strangely distorted, at once a series of sounds and also words. They were not a language that he knew, but the meaning of them resolved somewhere between his ears. He turned his head in the direction of the unfamiliar voice. Still held firmly under Jaskier's arm, the necromancer looked anxiously in Lan Wangji’s direction. Geralt shook his head again, trying to clear the fog from his thoughts. 

“Ah, ah! I’m not even struggling!” The necromancer complained as Jaskier twisted his arm to inch closer to Geralt. 

Jaskier nudged Geralt with one foot. “Geralt?” 

Even his own name twisted strangely in his head.

“I thought you were just doing a mind link, Lan Zhan,” the necromancer said. “This guy is so nervous, he might stab me by accident.” 

“Language acquisition,” Lan Wangji said simply. 

Geralt sat back on his heels. The last of the dizziness faded, and he was able to get in a full breath. He looked up at Jaskier. He’d taken his attention away from the necromancer, and the man was only a few moments away from slipping out of Jaskier’s grip. It was a risky move with the razor sharp blade of Jaskier’s stiletto so close to the artery in his neck. 

Pushing back to his feet, Geralt wrapped one hand around Jaskier’s wrist, steadying the blade. Looking down, he tugged a piece of yellowed paper out of the necromancer’s hand and held it up questioningly. Lan Yi had used similar slips of paper to both keep Geralt in the cave, and to open the portal. The necromancer had the audacity to smile at him, and his smile tugged at something strange in Geralt’s chest, like remembering a story someone else had lived. That smile was the softness at the core of Lan Wangji’s mind, the part of him he protected with the most ferocity, and also the center of his anger.

Geralt gently drew Jaskier’s hand away. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked uncertainly, but he didn’t resist the blade being pulled away and lowered his opposite arm without question at a nod from Geralt. The necromancer straightened up, but he didn’t move to jump away immediately. Geralt stepped to the side, not surprised when Lan Wangji darted in to grab the necromancer by the wrist and pull him quickly away. 

“Wei Ying?” 

The necromancer patted Lan Wangji’s chest reassuringly, and then slipped his flute out of his belt and gave it a twirl. “I’m just fine, Lan Zhan.” 

Geralt collected Lan Wangji’s sword, hefting it briefly and sighting down the edge. It was heavier than he would have expected for its length, and the hilt was cool to the touch. He swung it around to rest the flat on his opposite palm and offered it out. Lan Wangji nodded to him and took the sword carefully from his hands. He made a gesture with two fingers, and the discarded sheath flew out of the underbrush and smacked into his palm. He reseathed the blade with a practiced motion and lowered the sword to his side, tucking his right hand behind his back. 

Geralt grunted, impressed despite himself. It was a handy trick, and he wouldn’t have minded learning it, except that he had no intention of staying. He gestured at the empty circle. “Open the portal.” 

“Geralt, what did you just say?” Jaskier asked, tugging at his sleeve.

“Ah…you can’t go!” The old man in the circle interrupted, speaking for the first time. 

Geralt looked at him sharply and he shrank backwards, ducking down so his shoulders came up nearly to his ears. Lan Wangji turned to look at him as well, and he managed to compress down even further. 

“I...Well,” the man said, looking nervously between Geralt and Lan Wangji. “I… cursed you?” 

“Oh, you didn’t,” the necromancer said. He crossed his arms and put his palm over his face for a moment, making an exasperated  _ tut-tut-tut _ noise against his skin. “What was he supposed to do if he woke up in your body, huh? He didn’t even speak the language.” 

Geralt looked over the old man with renewed suspicion, one eyebrow creeping up his forehead. 

“I d-didn’t know he was a… a…. A  _ person _ ,” the man complained, though he said "person" like he still wasn't convinced it applied. “He brought the monster here in the first place, it’s only fair he should take it away! We waited a long time for someone to kill it, it’s not like I wanted to offer my body for it!” 

“Geralt, what is going on?” Jaskier pressed. “What are they saying? What are  _ you _ saying? How are you saying anything to them?” 

“Magic,” Geralt offered. He had to concentrate to force his tongue to produce his own language, and it left a strange taste in his mouth. He stifled a sneeze and eyed the necromancer in mounting anger. “What is this curse?” 

Stretching onto his toes to peer over at the old man over Lan Wangji’s shoulder, he demanded, “Where did you put the mark? How many?” 

The old man lifted his arm. It trembled faintly, and Geralt could see that his sleeve was soaked with blood. “Just one,” he said earnestly. 

“Check your left forearm,” the necromancer suggested, nudging his chin at Geralt. “Under your clothes. There’s a cut there that’s not going to heal until you do what that crazy old man wants.” 

Geralt pressed his fingers under his bracer, moving the fabric until he felt a stab of pain. The cut was so thin that he hadn’t even noticed it, but his sleeve was whole over it, and it hadn’t been there that morning. 

“Barely a scratch,” Geralt observed, unimpressed. “I’ll live.” 

The necromancer made a humming noise in his throat. “Sure,” he said. “Until it kills you and scatters your soul so you can’t ever reincarnate.” At Geralt’s look, he raised both hands, eyes wide with an expression of such innocence that Geralt’s glare only deepened. “Hey, I didn’t do it. I’m just on the same road.” He waved his own left arm as if in illustration.

Growling low in his throat, Geralt crossed the distance to the old man in a few fast strides and lifted him up by his collar. “Explain!” 

“You cursed us first!” the old man whined. “I just wanted you to take your monster back, and then we’ll leave you alone. We’re sorry we disturbed you the first time, White Dog, we apologize! I’ll give you whatever you want, just stop your monster from eating our children!” 

Geralt let him go, obscurely insulted to be called  _ White Dog _ for all that he’d never thought he’d cared over much about being the White Wolf. The old man dropped to his knees on the stone, repeatedly ducking his head to the ground and babbling an apology. 

Reaching up to massage out the headache quickly building behind his eyes, Geralt turned back to the other two men. “Is your name Lan Wangji or Lan Zhan?” 

Lan Wangji’s head whipped up, an expression of outrage crossing over his features. 

The other man laughed at his expression. “ _ I _ call him Lan Zhan. You can call him Lan Wangji.” Circling his arms out in front of his chest, he bowed his head once and said, “My name is Wei Wuxian.” 

_ Not Wei Ying _ , Geralt guessed at Lan Wangji’s narrow look. “Geralt of Rivia,” he introduced again. The syllables sounded strange on his tongue filtered through the unfamiliar language. He gestured at Jaskier. “Jaskier.” 

“Okay, it sounds like you’re making friends, which is usually my job, but can someone tell me  _ what is happening right now _ ?” Jaskier hissed. 

“We might be here for a while,” Geralt explained. He looked speculatively at Lan Wangji and then asked, “Can you do the…?” he gestured at his forehead and then pointed again at Jaskier. 

Lan Wangji turned his head slowly to eye Jaskier, and then he nodded once. 

Jaskier took a reflexive step closer to Geralt’s side, eyes narrowed on Lan Wangji. 

“This will be uncomfortable,” Geralt warned him as Lan Wangji put his fingers back to his forehead. 


	4. Chapter 4

Jaskier tuned his lute as he walked down the steep mountain path just behind Lan Wangji and the old man, grateful that the instrument had survived the tumble out of the portal. Geralt had been unwilling to leave the circles behind, and the two strangers had wanted the old man out of harm’s way, and to collect any other spells he had laying around. Lan Wangji hadn’t wanted to leave Geralt alone, and Wei Wuxian had wanted to start studying the circles. 

Diffusing tense situations where trust was a scarce commodity had become a particular skill of Jaskier’s. It had been easy enough to announce that he needed to stretch his legs, and offer himself up to Lan Wangji as a hostage while Wei Wuxian would serve the same function for Geralt. He didn’t think he had anything to fear from Lan Wangji, though at least he’d already emptied his stomach before the other man’s strange magic had dumped an entire language in his head. 

Other than the strum of the lute and the crunch of their feet on the rocky path, they walked in silence. Old Chen kept casting strange glances back at Jaskier, and then something that shivered uncertainly between fear and adoration at Lan Wangji. Jaskier was used to that look being directed at Geralt, so he guessed that must be a universal reaction to witchers. 

Once Jaskier finished tuning and started playing warm up scales, Lan Wangji’s head turned briefly to look at him. He said nothing, but Jaskier could tell from the tilt of his head that he was listening. He started composing as they walked, testing out lines under his breath. Forming his own language was like trying to recite poetry backwards while drunk and hanging upside down - No, he’d actually done that once, this was much worse than that. 

He gave up and let the words translate on his tongue. Old Chen craned his neck around to watch him, mouth hanging open, and almost introduced his face to the road for his efforts. Lightning fast, Lan Wangji’s sheathed sword darted out and caught him across the chest. Jaskier watched, impressed despite himself, as Lan Wangji managed to push the man back onto his feet with just one hand and what looked like exactly no strain. 

Old Chen muttered an embarrassed, “Thank you, Hanguang-jun.” He rubbed at his chest while they continued down the path. 

“What does Hanguang-jun mean?” Jaskier asked, trying out the word. It was so far the only thing that hadn’t translated, except that it kind-of did, something pinging in his head like “light” and “nobleman.” 

“It is a title,” Lan Wangji said, interrupting Old Chen’s excited in-drawn breath. 

Jaskier grinned. He loved those quick little breaths himself; they almost always preceded a story. He eased up closer to the older man to prod the story out of him, but one sideways look from Lan Wangji had the man hastily clearing his throat and speeding his steps so he took the lead of them. 

“You’re a very interesting person,” Jaskier commented, and then worked it immediately into a line and sang it.

Lan Wangji cut an icy look at him, but Jaskier had been traveling with Geralt far too long to be intimidated by any variety of icy looks or non-verbal grunts. Lan Wangji turned his attention to the road directly ahead of them, making no comments on Jaskier’s composition, though Old Chen had started humming along with the chorus by the time they turned a steep corner and found a wall pressed close to the road. 

Old Chen opened the gate to let them into a large yard with vegetables growing on either side, and a paved courtyard enclosed on three sides by a modest house. He led them through the door on the left side and gestured nervously at a corner of the dark room. 

“I’ll make tea,” Old Chen said as Lan Wangji stepped past him to the table stacked with paper and books. 

“There is no need,” Lan Wangji said shortly.

Old Chen froze on the way out the door, and then stood awkwardly beside it. 

“That sounds great,” Jaskier said, rescuing him. Lan Wangji glanced up, but said nothing as Old Chen fled the room. Jaskier was not sure what ‘tea’ was, but anything to get the hovering pressure of Old Chen’s presence out of the room was fine. He slung his lute across his back to look around the room. One wall was lined with shelves and stacked with a variety of dry goods in burlap bags and curious-looking jars, their bowl-like tops filled with water around the lids. The opposite side of the room had a heavy table under the window, a thick cutting block and hefty butcher’s knife in the center. Plants hung upside-down to dry against the back wall, and cuts of meat were suspended from the central beam. 

Jaskier wouldn’t have pegged Old Chen for a kitchen witch, but he had no other word to describe the cluttered, multi-use set-up. He nudged at a bushel of bright red, strangely-shaped fruits and they rattled pleasantly. 

“What are these?” he asked, poking them again. 

Lan Wangji made no response. He had lit half a dozen candles and was going through the papers and books one-by-one, examining each quickly and sorting them into piles. Jaskier abandoned the unfamiliar foods and wandered closer to Lan Wangji. His bright white presence was as out of place in the cramped pantry that he might as well have been some kind of angel.

“You and Wei Wuxian seem close.” 

Pausing, Lan Wangji glanced back at him, and then continued with his work. His only response was a soft, “Mn.” 

Jaskier laughed. “I wonder if you and Geralt are… I don’t know…. What the other would be in the different worlds? You have the same vocabulary at least.”

“Ridiculous,” Lan Wangji said derisively. 

Old Chen returned with a tray between his hands. Jaskier drifted over curiously. The tea was a hot drink in a red clay pot, and Old Chen prepared it with obvious ritual, the clay making a pleasant noise as he ran the lid of the pot over the rim. Hot water overflowed as he pushed the lid on, making the pot glisten in the candlelight. 

When Old Chen handed him a tiny cup, Jaskier blew across it carefully and sipped. It was bitter and had a strong, floral scent. Jaskier found it unpleasantly medicinal, with a scent of something like honeysuckle, but it warmed up his chest and still-queasy stomach. He offered Old Chen a smile and a genuine, “Thank you.” 

Old Chen’s hand shook when he brought a cup over to Lan Wangji, but Lan Wangji only turned on his knees to accept the cup with a kind of formal ritual. He nodded to Old Chen, and the man let out a shaky, relieved breath. 

“Are you keeping any others?” Lan Wangji asked him once he’d set the cup aside. 

Old Chen looked at the stacks of pages and books, wincing. He shook his head. 

Lan Wangji nodded. “I will take these. Do not pursue such things again,” he said in such a cold voice that even Jaskier shivered. 

For his part, Old Chen looked like he could have cheerfully died on the spot. He swallowed audible and bowed his head, nodding. “I won’t, Hanguang-jun. I won’t.” 

Lan Wangji nodded. He swept the stack up and somehow the books and loose pages disappeared into his sleeve without the sleeve changing shape or seeming to gain any weight. He stood, and Old Chen bowed to him very deeply. Lan Wangji acknowledged his bow and left without another word. 

Setting the cup on the table, Jaskier said, “It was very nice to meet you.” He hurried out after Lan Wangji’s retreating form, watching his robes sway around him like the wind had been woven into fabric. 

Old Chen followed them out his posture hunched and nervous. “Will you stay for a meal, Hanguang-jun?” he asked.

“There is no need,” Lan Wangji said, a refusal which only seemed to make Old Chen more nervous. He wrung his hands, casting covert glances at Jaskier, and then toward the gate. 

“My hospitality is poor, but you must let me offer a meal at least. I have wine!” he added brightly and then stopped himself and frowned. “I heard that the Lan don’t drink.”

“Mn,” Lan Wangji agreed, but he hesitated. “We will remain in the forest tonight to guard the arrays.”

“Let me pack something for you!” Old Chen said hurriedly, and rushed off before Lan Wangji could refuse. He didn’t turn back into his kitchen, but instead left them out in the courtyard and ran for the main gate, already shouting before the gate had even closed behind him. 

Lan Wangji did not  _ sigh _ , but he did settle into a resigned posture of waiting, one hand tucked at the base of his spine and eyes closing lightly. Jaskier stifled a laugh. Geralt at least usually sat down, but the meditative posture was otherwise familiar. 

Pulling his lute back around, Jaskier wandered curiously around the courtyard. A fat orange cat lounged in a sunny spot on top of a barrel. It cracked one eye open as Jaskier approached, but didn’t move from the coveted spot until Jaskier was in arm’s reach, and then the cat stood and yawned hugely, blinking slowly at Jaskier.

Jaskier offered a hand, and the cat headbutted his fingertips immediately. It accepted two pets to the head and a scratch to the chin, and then dismissed Jaskier handily, jumping down to amble off into the vegetable garden. Jaskier smiled after it; for whatever reason, cats almost universally hated Geralt, and even very young cats would spit little hisses at him, so Jaskier didn’t often get close to them anymore. He put his fingers back to the strings and sang a few lines as they waited.

Eventually, Jaskier settled himself on the woodchopping block, running mindless scales so he wouldn’t be tempted to go peeking in any rooms. It was remarkable that Old Chen had left two strangers in his home unattended, but Lan Wangji had some status that apparently made even Jaskier trustworthy by association. 

Old Chen returned after a long while with a crowd pushing in behind, half a dozen women carrying pots and baskets, and twice as many men peering over their shoulders. At their feet, a small gaggle of young children gaped at Lan Wangji and Jaskier both. Fingers pointed in Jaskier’s direction, accompanied by a flurry of whispers. 

Jaskier shifted to stand, belatedly looking for a second exit and feeling abruptly like he’d been caught in the wrong bed. The wall wasn’t high. He could probably get up and over before any real damage could be done, and Geralt would come to look for him eventually. He looked over to Lan Wangji, but the man seemed unsurprised by Old Chen’s helpers, who were now all jostling at the door, though Jaskier couldn’t tell if it was an effort to be through first, or to get someone else to do it. 

Putting on his very most charming smile, Jaskier waved. A little girl waved back. The older woman standing next to her quickly grabbed her by the wrist and shook her, giving Jaskier a narrow-eyed look of suspicion. 

“What  _ is _ he?” the girl asked in a pipping, clear voice. 

“A bard,” Jaskier offered, and several people jumped back with oaths.

“I  _ told  _ you,” Old Chen hissed. “I  _ told _ you!” 

After a good deal more shoving and whispering, a production during which Lan Wangji grew more and more obviously annoyed, an elderly woman knocked her nearest neighbor aside and stomped into the courtyard to set her pot down on the table. 

“Old Chen says he summoned the Demon White Dog,” she announced, putting both fists on her hips and glaring heatedly at Jaskier. “Is it you?”

Jaskier coughed into one fist, very prepared to tease Geralt for the rest of their lives about being the Demon White Dog. He tried to arrange his face into something trustworthy and respectful. “No, ma’am.” 

She crossed her arms over her chest. “What are you?” 

“A bard,” he repeated. 

“What do bards  _ eat _ ?” 

Jaskier blinked at her. “Whatever I can manage on the road, mostly. I do love a good roasted fowl.” 

“Not children?” a man called out, and then he ducked down quickly when Lan Wangji finally took notice of them, the intensity of his stare making several people shuffle backwards. 

“Not children,” Jaskier reassured them solemnly. 

After another round of mutters and hisses, the woman nodded shortly. She waved her hand impatiently, and the other women came shuffling forward with their burdens. In a few minutes, a hamper of unfamiliar foods and several squat jars with cork stoppers had been put together. The first woman closed up the lid and brought it over to Jaskier with both hands. 

She peered at him more closely and then  _ harrumphed _ . “Too much water,” she said disapprovingly. The top of her head barely reached Jaskier’s breastbone, and she was badly stooped besides, but Jaskier didn’t doubt she’d find a way to smack the top of his head if he upset her with that peculiar magic all woman seemed to develop spontaneously as soon as they had grandchildren. 

“I will… moderate my water intake,” Jaskier said finally, at a loss for how to respond. 

She huffed again and then thrust the basket out at him. “Make sure the young master eats well,” she ordered. 

Jaskier accepted the basket with absolutely no idea what she meant, but she seemed satisfied with his nod of agreement. Taking this as permission to leave, Lan Wangji walked to the gate without a word, though he inclined his head to acknowledge the scattering of bows as the crowd hastily parted to let him through.

Jaskier eased after him, pulling his shoulders in tight as the curious villagers straightened up to get a good look at him. He heard breathless exclamations of _ , _ “Blue eyes!” and “—his  _ hair _ ” and “Maybe a fae creature?” as soon as he was back on the road. 

“Surprised we made it out of there alive,” Jaskier said, looking back over his shoulder. The bend in the road had quickly hidden the crowd from view, but he could still hear a murmur of voices.

Lan Wangji gave him an unimpressed look. He leaned over to take the basket from Jaskier’s hand, and Jaskier’s attention was once again caught by the flutter of his sleeves. Even as voluminous as they were, it didn’t seem possible that he could have hidden the stack of pages inside, especially not with as light as they looked.

Curious, he reached out and caught the sleeve where he’d seen the books and pages vanish. 

Jerking back, Lan Wangji stared at him incredulously, eyes moving between Jaskier’s face and the hand he had caught in the fabric.

“Sorry!” Jaskier said, quickly dropping it. “I was only curious. Where did those books go?” 

Lan Wangji looked at him like cats looked at Geralt. Without answering, he shifted the basket on his arm and drew his sword.

Holding both hands up, Jaskier took several steps backwards. “Hey, hey, hey! Okay, I get it, no touching the witcher!” 

Tilting his head curiously, Lan Wangji released the blade. It hovered several feet off the ground. While Jasker watched, stunned, Lan Wangji stepped up onto it like it was solid stone. His expression twitched. On Geralt, similar twitches might as well have been the most exaggerated snarls or smiles, so Jaskier recognized the hint of distaste in the seemingly still features. 

With apparent reluctance, Lan Wangji held one hand out. 

“Oh, no,” Jaskier said, taking another step back. “I can walk, thank you very much.” 

Jaw clenching visibly, Lan Wangji made an impatient gesture with his fingers. “It will be faster.”

“ _ That _ is a piece of very thin metal,” Jaskier argued, pointing to it. Lan Wangji stood with only the balls of his feet balanced on the flat of the blade, which was only a few inches wide. “How are you even  _ doing _ that? That is  _ not _ a witcher thing. I have seen witchers—a particular witcher—use his sword for all manner of things one should probably  _ not  _ use a sword for, but not for—for— _ that _ .” 

Jaskier made a broad gesture that encompassed Lan Wangji’s entire form. Lan Wangji continued to stare at him, golden eyes unblinking, face blank in a way that was probably ominous for most people, but most people hadn’t spent as much time with a stone-faced witcher as Jaskier had.

“I will not drop you,” Lan Wangji said, grudgingly, after a very long moment of silence. “Do not be frightened,” he added, and his expression and posture softened slightly with the words. He held his hand out again, doing that imploring thing that Geralt did like it was his job, all quiet earnestness and spare words like he had to ration them, and goddamn witchers anyways. 

“If you drop me, I will come back to haunt you,” Jaskier warned. “I will never leave your shadow, I will sing the most obnoxious Skellig drinking songs right in your ear all day every day until you die, and maybe I won’t even stop then.” 

Lan Wangji’s eyebrow twitched. He blinked twice, slowly, head tilted as though considering a response. If he had the same kind of skill-set Geralt did, it wasn’t like he didn’t know how to handle a ghost, and maybe he was thinking he would just banish Jaskier’s annoying shade. Well, if he thought  _ Jaskier _ hadn’t learned a thing or three trailing after a witcher for so many years, he would be surprised. Instead of replying, Lan Wangji nodded shortly, hand steady where he continued to hold it out.

Despite the apparent agreement of Jaskier’s right to life-long, insanity-inducing retribution, Jaskier still had to make two approaches before he let Lan Wangji grip his forearm. Lan Wangji wasn’t a  _ small _ man, but he was slighter than Jaskier by a good margin and seemed to have more of an acrobat’s build than a swordsman’s. His strength was startling, and Jaskier nearly went over the opposite side of the blade when he hopped up as Lan Wangji pulled. 

Lan Wangji caught him neatly, and Jaskier muttered unkind things under his breath while he adjusted his footing on the blade. To his surprise, the blade felt very solid under his feet. He couldn’t guess if that was to Lan Wangji’s credit, the sword’s, or some other obscure magic, but if he just didn’t look down, he could pretend he was only balancing on the edge of a stage. 

“Try not to move,” Lan Wangji warned him, and then they lifted directly into the air.

Jaskier cursed and grabbed onto Lan Wangji for balance. Under his hands, the man’s shoulders went tight, but if he didn’t like being grabbed by relative strangers, he probably shouldn’t have put a relative stranger on his  _ sword _ to go  _ flying _ . 

Where it had taken nearly an hour to walk to Old Chen’s house, the flight back up the mountain took perhaps a quarter of the time. After the first heart-pounding minutes, Jaskier felt himself relaxing. He did eventually release Lan Wangji’s shoulders, holding instead to his sleeves for balance as he craned around to see the world moving underneath them. He’d been up on mountain sides and cliffs tall enough to flatten massive pines into matchsticks, but it was a different experience altogether when they were moving.

By the time they started descending through trees, Jaskier had grown bold enough to take one foot off the blade and wiggle it in the air, moving his hands to Lan Wangji’s waist for better balance as he felt the wind pressing under his foot. Lan Wangji gave him a sharp look over one shoulder, but he didn’t protest. Jaskier put his foot back down, but then let go with both hands to feel the wind tugging at his arms. A laugh bubbled out of his chest, and then he nearly lost his balance and had to grab at the witcher again. His heart thundered and his legs trembled with the fright, but he still stuck one hand out again and slapped a branch as they threaded carefully through the trees. 

A few feet from the ground, they came to a halt. Lan Wangji did not immediately step down, and Jaskier leaned around him to see Wei Wuxian with Geralt’s silver sword. Jaskier jolted forward, but Lan Wangji held a forestalling hand, and Jaskier paused just long enough to realize that they weren’t fighting. Geralt had his steel drawn, but it was held loose and pointed at the dirt while Wei Wuxian swung the lighter silver sword through a complicated series of motions.

Jaskier had been watching Geralt fight for long enough to notice the difference in the style, quick and liquid, and to see that it wasn’t the best suited for Geralt’s heavier blade. Wei Wuxian had a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead and his arm trembled faintly as he lunged forward with the blade extended straight out like an extension of his body. 

Lan Wangji was very still and so quiet, he hardly seemed to be breathing. Wei Wuxian completed a series of spins and jabs, and then he stopped and grinned over at them. Rather than lower the sword, he flipped it up to rest against his shoulder, going so far as to tap it there. Jaskier had seen that sword bisect creatures with thick layers of natural armor, and he twitched faintly with discomfort to see it held so casually. Geralt’s eyes tracked the blade as well, one eyebrow creeping slowly upward. 

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian called, oblivious to Geralt’s disapproval. His face lit up in a smile that did weird, twisty, shivery things to Jaskier’s insides, even knowing it wasn’t aimed at him. He remembered the sense of steady warmth when Lan Wangji had muscled into his brain and dropped an entire language on him, and he looked speculatively at the other man’s broad shoulders. 

As though they hadn’t paused at all, Lan Wangji stepped down. The sword jerked with the loss of his weight, and Jaskier hurriedly followed. Geralt frowned at them very deeply, his eyes shifting from Jaskier to the sword, still hovering half a body length off the ground. At a gesture from Lan Wangji, the sword sheathed itself.

“We were flying,” Jaskier said smugly to Geralt’s narrow-eyed expression.

“Hm,” Geralt said.

“He’s a  _ very  _ talented flyer,” Jaskier elucidated, and grinned when Geralt’s face darkened even further. Off to his side, Wei Wuxian put a hand up to cover his mouth, eyes sparkling with amusement. Catching Jaskier’s eye, he winked. The pupils of Geralt’s cat-slitted eyes were already wide in the twilight shadow of the forest, but they widened further while he focused in on Jaskier. His nostrils flared. 

Jaskier smiled innocently. Geralt grunted. He held one hand out without looking away, and Wei Wuxian neatly spun his silver sword and returned it, hilt first. Geralt sheathed both blades, his pupils finally returning to normal and the fire of his attention moving away. 

Jaskier’s stomach gave a familiar twist not unlike what he’d experienced far above the tree-tops, one breath away from tumbling into open air. 


	5. Chapter 5

“I think I can do it,” Wei Wuxian said, standing over the portal circle. He had one arm crossed over his stomach, elbow planted on his fist, flute twirling absently. “I need some time to reverse it.” 

Geralt grunted, annoyed. “Ask Lan Yi. She did it once.” 

Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji exchanged glances. They said nothing, not even a stray hum of noise, but a whole conversation passed between them. Wei Wuxian gave Geralt a speculative look, his flute coming to a halt and then spinning the other direction. Halt, reverse direction, halt. 

“Lan Yi hasn’t been available to consult with disciples in… a hundred years?”

Geralt frowned. “Twelve years.” 

“Interesting,” Wei Wuxian said. His flute resumed spinning while he thought. Abruptly, he grinned. “I’ll figure it out. Until then, there’s a monster somewhere eating children, so I guess we should look at it.” He tilted subtly sideways and knocked his shoulder into Lan Wangji, who nodded. 

Geralt glared down at the portal circle and then looked up. The sun was creeping lower, and he had no information to even start looking. He sat on a fallen tree and unlaced his bracer. The cut was long and jagged, but shallow. It had already coagulated, and there was no swelling or heat. He’d gotten worse scratches from mildly enthusiastic lovers. It didn’t seem possible that it could be the thing that would land him in a grave. While Jaskier and Lan Wangji had been escorting Old Chen home, Wei Wuxian had shown his own. Three long scratches that had healed into pink, shiny scars, and one that was still open. 

“What do we know about this monster?” Geralt asked finally, watching Jaskier put a fire together. 

Wei Wuxian stepped over the fallen tree and sat next to him, flute still spinning-spinning-spinning. “According to the villagers, it’s been here as long as anyone can remember. Comes with a fog over the lake, takes anyone inside the fog. The fog has been growing, moving further away from the lake.” He gestured behind him with one thumb where the ground continued to slope steeply upwards. “A little boy was taken this morning.” 

“Hm.” Geralt twisted to look up the slope and then settled back down. 

“Foglet?” Jaskier suggested. 

Geralt grunted. It was a good bet, but there were plenty of creatures that preferred fog for their hunting grounds, any number of witches, ghosts, or necrophages. The number of them that could create their own fog was shorter, but he knew better than most the way that rumors grew into legends. A single creature using a naturally occurring fog as a hunting ground could quickly develop into an army of fog-spewing monsters. 

Jaskier sat back from the fire and dragged their bags over, sorting through their supplies. They hadn’t carried much into the cave, not expecting it to be a lengthy stay, but even the easiest hunt could go sideways and they always had at least some supplies. 

“Check it in the morning?” Jaskier asked. “It did just take a victim. Probably will be dormant for the night at least.” 

“Hm.” 

Pulling out a roll of bandages and a canteen, Jaskier walked on his knees over to Geralt’s side. Geralt was so distracted by the sight of him that he didn’t realize what Jaskier was doing until he’d already taken Geralt’s wrist and turned it over. He nudged the sleeve out of the way and twisted his arm to catch the light. 

Snorting, Jaksier sat back. “You got worse from that cat in Oxenfurt last month.”

“Hm.”

“The cat was  _ not _ that large. It’s your own fault. You know they hate you.” He rose back up to his knees and nudged his way in between Geralt’s thighs, reaching up automatically to unlace his pauldrons. Geralt was immediately aware of the heat of his body, the scent of him, the subtle change in pressure where he occupied space.

“Jaskier…”

“Shut up,” Jaskier told him, pushing the pauldrons away and opening the laces down the side of Geralt’s breastplate. The release of pressure over his ribs made him aware of how much they ached. He’d hit several trees during the fight, and whatever Wei Wuxian had done to send him flying had felt like a blow from a small cave troll. 

He grunted as he shifted to let Jaskier ease the breastplate over the top of his head, and then turned his face away as Jaskier gently pulled his shirt away from his body and peeked under it. 

“Ouch,” he observed. 

Leaning over Jaskier’s shoulder, Wei Wuxian examined the damage. He winced and gave Geralt a somewhat-guilty look. “Sorry about that.” 

“Hm.” 

“No problem,” Jaskier translated for him, rolling his eyes. 

Wei Wuxian laughed. The sound of it made Geralt feel warm, and then annoyed as soon as he registered the warmth. He looked over at Lan Wangji, standing stoically on the opposite side of the fire, motionless, expressionless. Geralt wouldn’t have believed that there was such an overwhelming heat in him if it hadn’t spilled over and infected Geralt. From Jaskier’s fond expression, he wasn’t the only one. 

Tearing his eyes away from the other witcher, Geralt grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head. The motion sent pain stabbing through his ribs. In the failing light, he saw that his entire side from armpit to hip was angry red, and there was a handprint picked out in deep purple over his ribs. 

He glared at Wei Wuxian, who only smiled back at him. “I thought you were a fierce corpse,” he said lightly, shrugging. “And it looked like you had a captive.” 

He made a gesture toward his face, as if this explained what a ‘fierce corpse’ was, and then turned his hand over to point at Jaskier. Geralt grunted. He had been called worse when under the influence of a potion, and he knew the black eyes and poison marks didn’t exactly inspire warmth and trust. 

At Geralt’s feet, Jaskier asked, “You thought I was a  _ captive _ ?” He sounded delighted rather than upset, and he was already starting to hum under his breath as he prodded at the bruise on Geralt’s side. “This is what happens when you act like a mother bear,” he teased.

“Mm,” Wei Wuxian agreed, watching them speculatively.

Geralt stifled a pained noise when Jaskier’s calloused fingertip pressed into the center of the handprint. 

“Might need to be drained,” Jaskier observed. He tossed Geralt a vaguely apologetic look. “It’s going to be worse tomorrow.” 

Lan Wangji stepped around the fire and reached over Jaskier’s shoulder, making Jaskier and Geralt both jolt in surprise. He held his hand just off Geralt’s side, as if feeling it for heat, and then a soft blue glow surrounded his fingers and spread up to his wrist. A sensation like a winter breeze ghosted over Geralt’s skin and sank into the bruise. 

After a moment, Lan Wangji frowned and straightened up. The light and the cool air faded, leaving only a sense of numbness in its wake. Geralt set his hand over the bruise. His skin felt cold to the touch. He grunted out a thank you, though there was only a mild improvement, no more remarkable than holding a cloth soaked with ice melt to his skin.

“You have no golden core,” Lan Wangji observed, staring down at Geralt in obvious consternation. 

At Geralt’s side, Wei Wuxian went tense. “Really?” he asked, voice shivering weirdly. 

“What is that?” 

Lan Wangji only blinked at him, and even Wei Wuxian remained silent as though Geralt had asked to have feet explained to him. After an awkward moment, Lan Wangji moved away from them. Heedless of his fine white robes, he sat directly down in the dirt on the opposite side of the fire. 

“It’s the source of a cultivator’s power?” Wei Wuxian offered finally. “How do you channel your energy?” 

“What is a cultivator?” Jaskier asked before Geralt could decide if he wanted to answer. He sat back on his heels, hands resting casually on Geralt’s knees while he looked up at Wei Wuxian for an explanation. 

“Ah…” Seemingly at a loss, Wei Wuxian pointed at Lan Wangji. “He’s a cultivator. Someone who can store and move energy.” 

“Mn,” Lan Wangji agreed. “Wei Ying as well.” 

Jaskier twisted to look back at Lan Wangji. “You’re not a witcher?” The word didn’t translate, and it sounded strange and harsh in comparison to the rest of the question. 

Lan Wangji only blinked his golden eyes. Wei Wuxian said, “Lan Zhan is the best cultivator in the world.”

“Not true,” Lan Wangji said. He waved his arm over his lap. The air around him shimmered like a heat wave, and then a stringed instrument appeared over his knees, as white as his clothing and glowing faintly in the twilight gloom. Geralt remembered the twang of strings and the subsequent concussive waves of force and tensed himself to stand, but Jaskier upset his balance by using his grip on Geralt’s knees to get to his feet. 

“Did you have that hiding in your sleeve with those books?” 

Lan Wangji’s fingers hovered over the strings. He took a moment to consider the question, head tilted as he perhaps discarded one answer or another before he nodded. 

“What’s a witcher?” Wei Wuxian asked while Jaskier wandered over to sit at Lan Wangji’s side. 

Jaskier gestured negligently at Geralt. “That’s a witcher. Monster hunter for hire.  _ Allegedly  _ has no emotions.” He planted one elbow on his knee and looked at Lan Wangji curiously. “So you come by your golden eyes honestly?” 

Obviously unsettled by his physical proximity, Lan Wangji leaned subtly away. His fingers plucked out three notes, and then he stopped to adjust the tension on the strings. Geralt could have told him that ignoring Jaskier never did anyone any good, and was more likely to have the opposite effect, but some things had to be learned the hard way.

“What does he mean by that?” Wei Wuxian asked Geralt.

Geralt pulled his shirt back over his shoulders and stretched his back out. He was also unsettled by Jaskier’s proximity to Lan Wangji, and not sure why. He didn’t have any claim on Jaskier’s personal space, and it wasn’t the first time he’d seen Jaskier flirting—or doing considerably more than flirting—with someone else. It wasn’t even the first time he’d seen Jaskier nudging his way close to another witcher. 

Pushing aside the discomfort, Geralt said, “My eyes are the result of a mutation. I wasn’t born with them like this.” 

Wei Wuxian made a soft  _ oh _ noise to express his confusion and continued watching Geralt expectantly. When he’d been younger, Geralt had often explained his mutations to strangers. He had thought that if they just understood, there would be less fear and disgust. Wei Wuxian was decades too late for that. 

When Geralt offered no further explanations, Wei Wuxian instead looked across the fire to where Lan Wangji had straightened, apparently satisfied. He pulled his fingers across the strings, opposite thumb pushing one string down and sliding up the length of the instrument. The resulting sound quivered mournfully out of the strings.

Jaskier watched Lan Wangji’s fingers raptly for several minutes, and then retrieved his lute. His fingers ghosted over the strings for a moment, not touching, just hovering over them while his eyes followed Lan Wangji’s hands. After a breath, he picked up the thread of the music, settling into a harmony that drifted around Lan Wangji’s song in slow spirals. 

Lan Wangji’s eyes flicked to the side, but he didn’t stop playing, accepting Jaskier’s accompaniment without comment. 

“Sounds nice,” Wei Wuxian said after a moment of listening. He put his elbow on his knee and rested his chin on his fist, head bobbing along with the slow beat. 

“Hm.” 

“You two have been traveling together for a long time?” 

“Mm.” Geralt wasn’t sure what constituted a long time, but since he had never had a permanent traveling companion other than his horse, any length of time traveling together must have been a long time. He watched Jaskier’s hands plucking out the unfamiliar music. It wasn’t that he’d never heard Jaskier play a melancholy song, but he tended to play the fast, cheerful music that inns full of drunk patrons responded to the best. 

Cutting his eyes over to Wei Wuxian, Geralt asked, “You?” 

“Ah…” Wei Wuxian rubbed the back of his neck. “Depends on how you look at it, I guess. Not really that long.” He made a speculative noise and then laughed lowly and said, “My whole life. This time.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry we have to stay out here. It will be easier to work with an existing array, so we need to protect it.” 

Geralt grunted. His time spent sleeping under tree boughs far outweighed the nights he’d slept in a bed, and it was a more comfortable campsite than many. If he was lucky, whatever monster had been plaguing the mountain would wander into the camp in the night, Geralt could decapitate it, and then they could go—

Home? 

Jaskier’s voice threaded into the music, a low hum, wordless and deep. Was there any difference between staying and going? It was the same long road, taking contracts, sleeping under the trees. 

Yennefer. 

Yes, he would be… less content without her in the world, but she would continue on as she had always done, and Geralt was not so far beyond reason to not understand that their relationship had never been healthy. Jaskier would be missed. Geralt’s absence might not even be noticed for years and years, and then it would be assumed that he went the way all witchers did in the end, buried in some stinking cave somewhere, or moldering in some monster’s gut. 

This world had no witchers. Everyone would assume he’d come by his golden eyes ‘honestly.’ He would just be one more man with a blade. 

Lan Wangji’s last note quivered in the air, and Jaskier played one last, crawling scale before pulling his fingers away from the strings. They were all quiet in the wake of it, the pop and crack of the fire lending the only applause. 

Finally, Jaskier sighed in satisfaction. Lan Wangji’s eyes slid toward him without his head turning. If he had an opinion on Jaskier’s playing or his reaction, he didn’t voice it. His gaze turned instead to Geralt, where it lingered, frank and expectant. 

“Mm… nice?” Geralt offered after the moment had stretched into an uncomfortable weight. 

Jaskier blew out a frustrated breath. “‘Nice,’ he says. You should really treasure that compliment. I asked him once if he liked my voice and he told me it sounded like a pie with no filling. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say a nice thing about a single song. Of mine or anyone else’s.  _ Nice _ .” 

Wei Wuxian cleared his throat. “How is your side?” 

Geralt frowned, confused, but after Wei Wuxian gestured at his side, he leaned over and pulled his shirt up again. The sun had slipped down beneath the line of the trees while they’d played, and he couldn’t tell if it looked any different. He pressed an exploratory hand to it and grunted. 

“Better.” It wasn’t healed, but it felt less swollen under his fingers and the pain was not as bad when he pushed against it. 

“You’ll have to teach me that trick,” Jaskier said when Geralt dropped his shirt. 

“Not a trick,” Lan Wangji said, sounding faintly offended at the suggestion.

“It’s a school of cultivation,” Wei Wuxian offered. “It takes lifetimes to master.” 

“Ah—and a golden core?” Jaskier guessed, fingers strumming absently over the strings even as his eyes tripped over the unfamiliar instrument in Lan Wangji’s lap. 

“Mn,” Lan Wangji agreed. He turned his head marginally and watched with far better-concealed curiosity as Jaskier picked out a few lines from one song, and then another, drifting back and forth between them without any pattern. Geralt only realized it wasn’t a single composition because he’d heard them both enough times to feel the differences like missteps, expected notes not appearing where they should have. 

“Do you play any other instruments?” Jaskier asked. He didn’t look over at Lan Wangji, but he was always aware of when other people were watching him, the performer in him constantly on alert for attention. 

Lan Wangji nodded. “Several.” 

“This look familiar?” Jaskier tilted the neck of the lute up to put it on display, one eyebrow hiked as he finally turned to meet Lan Wangji’s eyes. 

Lan Wangji made a low, thoughtful noise. “Smaller than the pipa. More strings.” His eyes drifted over the lute to the top of the neck where it bent back. 

Agile fingers strumming out a series of quick scales and gasp of quick melody, Jaskier pulled the strap over his head and held it out. Lan Wangji blinked at him, obviously shocked by the gesture. Geralt felt his hands tighten on his thighs and had to consciously relax them. The lute was not the best choice for a traveling instrument, far too delicate, and Jaskier guarded it like it was his own child. Even when he was at his most seductive, Geralt had never seen Jaskier hand the instrument over to anyone. 

At Geralt’s side, Wei Wuxian seemed equally shocked, his breath drawing in sharply as Lan Wangji waved his hand over his own instrument and it shimmered out of existence. He reached out with obvious respect to take the lute, automatically setting it upright on his thigh. 

Jaskier hummed. “I guess there’s no reason why  _ not _ , but you might find it easier if you lay it down…” He levered himself up to his knees and shifted so he was behind Lan Wangji’s shoulder. He wrapped one hand around Lan Wangji’s and pulled to adjust the instrument across his lap. 

Lan Wangji jerked at the touch, but he didn’t pull away, even if his hand tightened to a white-knuckled grip on the instrument. Jaskier certainly noticed, but he ignored the signs of the other man’s discomfort and practically laid across his shoulders to adjust Lan Wangji’s fingers, his other hand sliding around Lan Wangji’s ribs to strum across the strings while they formed the chords together.

After a long moment, Lan Wangji relaxed, watching their joined hands intently. Jaskier named the chords as he demonstrated, and occasionally took Lan Wangji’s opposite hand to play over the strings. 

“Wow,” Wei Wuxian breathed.

Geralt had almost forgotten he wasn’t alone in the corner of some dark inn, watching Jaskier work his charming magic. He looked over at Wei Wuxian, not surprised to see his expression twisted in a confusion of tilted lips and furrowed eyebrows. 

“Mn,” he agreed, sighing. 

The reaction smoothed Wei Wuxian’s expression into a smile. “You have your hands full.” 

“You, too.” 

“Not usually,” Wei Wuxian said, perplexed. 

“He has that effect.” 

Shortly, Jaskier pulled away from Lan Wangji, and Lan Wangji remained curled around the instrument, teasing a simple melody from it. Where his fingers faltered, he recovered quickly, and Jaskier beamed at him. 

“You should come home with us,” Jaskier said. “The crowds would eat you up with a spoon and lick the plate.” 

A discordant jangle of strings accompanied Wei Wuxian’s startled squawk of laughter, and Lan Wangji’s features warmed in the firelight. He glared at Wei Wuxian, who only laughed harder. He pointedly stilled the vibration of the strings and handed the lute back to Jaskier. If he hadn’t been quite so dignified, he would have been sulking. 

Still laughing, Jaskier draped the strap over his neck and plucked out a cheery string of notes as he stood. He liked to pace while he composed, and Geralt had spent many nights meditating at the fireside while Jaskier walked a slow circle around their campsite, playing and testing out lines and talking to Geralt in a sing-song voice. Geralt almost never responded, and the content of the discussions made it obvious that Jaskier thought he couldn’t hear them at all—everything from griping complaints about his rivals to wistful declarations of unrequited love. 

“You know how to use that thing?” Jaskier asked, prodding at Wei Wuxian with one foot as he passed their fallen tree. 

Wei Wuxian gave Lan Wangji a long look and then bounced up to his feet. He twirled his flute with a showman’s flare up to his lips and fell into step with Jaskier, joining the jaunty tune. 

For some unknowable reason, Lan Wangji watched them both with definite tension in his shoulders, his head cocked to listen as they clashed and ran over each other before falling into something like harmony. Lan Wangji slowly relaxed. He closed his eyes lightly, assuming the familiar posture of meditation. 

Geralt recognized from the fall of Jaskier’s footsteps that he was enjoying himself and not likely to stop any time soon. Normally, Geralt had no doubts that Jaskier could run any companion into the ground, but having spent a few hours with the whirlwind that was Wei Wuxian, Geralt suspected that Jaskier had met his match. 

He watched the two of them as they circled the ring of firelight. The foreign fondness he felt for Wei Wuxian battled hard with his innate distrust of necromancers. He'd been puzzling at it all day, trying to reconcile the other man's bright personality with the cloud of dark magic that swirled constantly around him. Geralt had never encountered a necromancer who wasn't mad, viciously cruel, or, far more often, both. 

Wei Wuxian played a quick little series of cheerful notes, and Jaskier responded with a jaunty few measures of a drinking song. They continued back and forth that way like a conversation, pausing irregularly for laughter or to repeat a piece they liked. 

Lan Wangji’s eyes followed them whenever they were in his line of sight. The firelight made the gold glow, and Geralt wondered very briefly if it reflected the same way in his own. 


	6. Chapter 6

In the pre-dawn light, the lake was muted gray. Water lapped softly at the shoreline, lazy ripples of fish surfacing briefly, the hum of insects, the susurration of the reeds under the wind’s labor. It was a pretty lake, excepting the wedge scooped out of the opposite bank where the clay had likely been mined for generations. 

Geralt settled on the large boulder and let his eyes drift aimlessly over the surroundings. His perch was high enough about the water to see all the way around the lake. The bowl of the crater was steeper on one side and looked like the most likely candidate for the kinds of damp caves the creature they were looking for would gravitate toward, but the quarry had created a marshy stretch of muddy ground that certain monsters liked. 

At the base of the boulder, Jaskier yawned, ending with a great stretch and an obscene moan of satisfaction. His jacket hung open over his shirt, and the fabric beneath clung lovingly to every angle and curve. Some distance away, Lan Wangji’s non-mutated golden eyes slitted and he watched Jaskier continue his morning stretches with understandable curiosity. Jaskier had always been more solid than someone might expect looking at him with his clothing still on, but Geralt had watched the lingering softness of youth melt away into travel-hardened muscle over the years. He knew every plane of muscle, every valley, every scar on Jaskier’s body as well as he knew his own. Better—he didn’t spend much time examining his own body. 

Ignoring the pang of discomfort in his ribs, Geralt slid down the rock to Jaskier’s side. 

“Cave first or mud first?” Jaskier asked. He pressed his fists into his low back and bent impressively backward over them. 

“Mud,” Geralt decided. 

Jaskier crinkled his nose up in displeasure, but he would have been equally displeased by a cave, and the mud wouldn’t require a dose of Cat to search. Geralt privately suspected a cave was the more likely lair, and wanted to eliminate the easier terrain first. 

Straightening, Jaskier patted himself briskly on both cheeks and said, “Mud it is.” He started off toward the distant shore. The lake was not large, but at a leisurely pace, it would be an hour to the mud quarry, long enough for the sun to lumber over the jutting peaks and burn off any morning fog. 

If it was a creature using a natural fog, it would be unlikely to surprise them. If it was a creature that could create its own fog, the time of day would hardly matter. Lan Wangji fell into step a comfortable arm’s length to Geralt’s left. Despite the damp grass and the grasping reeds, he seemed to glide more than he walked, his sword held loosely in his left hand, right hand tucked to his back. 

Geralt reached back and loosened both of his swords in their sheaths. There was a chance that the mist-monster was the human kind of monster, happy to prey on vulnerable victims and let the villagers’ imagination make them into something untouchable, or even a rabid animal that the steel would solve as neatly as his silver would handle a hag.

Even so early in the morning, Jaskier could not contain his brief outbursts of song. He whistled to the birds, laughed as startled lizards scurried out of the morning sunlight at his approached. He narrated his morning in song, serenading the glitter of the sunlight on the water. Morning was very regrettably his favorite time of the day, which always confused Geralt when stacked up against his complaints at being roused before he was inclined to wake on his own, and his penchant for sleeping until well past noon. 

He had at least left the lute safe in Wei Wuxian’s keeping, so he was accompanied only by the sounds of their footsteps and the natural morning melodies as the sun roused the lake. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said as they came into sight of the quarry. 

Jaskier’s voice faded obligingly, and he slowed his steps to let Geralt take the lead. Without a word, Lan Wangji’s course drifted closer to the lake and lagged so Jaskier was kept between them. Geralt stepped into the shadow of the crater wall and let his eyes adjust. He took a deep breath through his nose, separating out Jaskier’s familiar scents, and then Lan Wangji’s unusual woody-floral scent. The clay was rich and sharp with iron; the dewy grass was a clean, green scent; the water was fish and soaked vegetation; a short distance to his left, a tree rotted slowly, half submerged; somewhere ahead of them, a dead animal decomposed in the underbrush. Nothing that stank of black magic beyond the faint notes that clung to Lan Wangji from Wei Wuxian, none of the peculiar sepulcher scent he associated with the kind of creature they were hunting. 

“Hm.” 

“Does that mean we don’t have to slog through the mud?” Jaskier prodded. 

Geralt let his focus fade, the scents around him becoming so much background again. He huffed out a breath and Jaskier rolled his eyes, stepping off the grass into the quarry. His boots squelched into the mud and he shuddered dramatically. 

“I just cleaned these,” he complained. 

“You can clean them again,” Geralt told him. He did not say that he had offered to go alone and leave Jaskier back at the camp while Wei Wuxian worked on getting them home. He did not point out that Jaskier had been the first of them awake, and he had woken Geralt by rolling directly onto him and complaining that it was too early for monster hunting. 

“You’re in white, how are you not more upset about this than I am?” Jaskier demanded of Lan Wangji, who gave no response. “He’s in white,” Jaskier insisted, plodding through the mud to elbow Geralt. “ _ White _ .” 

“I noticed,” Geralt said. 

“And you bitch about  _ my _ clothes.” 

“You bitch about your clothes,” Geralt corrected. He nudged at a rock with a boot, but it was solidly anchored in the earth. 

“Do you know how difficult it is to stay fashionably attired when you’re traveling with the human equivalent of a mountain troll?” Jaskier asked Lan Wangji with a wide gesture in Geralt’s direction. “This is a good day. He at least mostly matches.” 

Lan Wangji made a low hum of noise that Geralt couldn’t interpret, but Jaskier laughed in delight and let the subject drop. Their path took them through the tall grasses at the lake’s edge, Jaskier automatically falling quiet in response to Geralt’s lifted hand. If there was anything unsavory in the immediate area, the tall grass would be its most likely ambush point, but there was only the startled flurry of wings of a muddy brown bird taking flight. 

Despite escaping the mud, Jaskier groaned again. “It’s always caves,” he said. 

“Might not be a cave,” Geralt reasoned. 

“There’s  _ always _ a cave.” 

~*~

There was a cave. 

Jaskier gloated quietly as Geralt knelt at the cave mouth. The entrance was only a few feet tall and the ground below dropped down steeply. Geralt could make it inside, but he would have to crawl or slide, and he couldn’t see if the cave widened at any point, or how far the slope extended before it met level ground. If there was a creature making its home there, the last thing Geralt needed was to be slogging through its shit on his hands and knees when it woke up. 

He reached into his belt pouch and heard Jaskier pulling Lan Wangji away. The smooth, round canister fit neatly in his palm. He activated the bomb and rolled it through the cave mouth. It hit the ground and clattered as it rolled further inside, and then there was a low  _ fwoom _ of concussive noise, and the cave mouth lit up dazzling white. 

From inside, an outraged shriek of pain. Geralt backed up sharply, drawing his silver sword even as fog rolled out of the cave in an angry charge as though it were a living thing. It hit so fast that Geralt felt it smack against his cheeks. Jaskier was quickly reduced to a faint shadow, and Lan Wangji simply winked out of sight like a specter. 

A pop of air and a hiss of movement was Geralt’s only warning to a set of wicked talons. He rolled backwards, the claws passing close enough to stir the fog. He struck out at the fading shadow and heard an answering bellow that was not so much pained as startled. The creature withdrew, cautious of Geralt’s silver sword, and Geralt backed away toward the shadow of Jaskier’s figure in the fog. 

Jaskier continued to withdraw, moving slowly enough not to trip and steadily enough not to draw attention from the motion. He put one hand against Geralt’s back as they moved, both to keep his balance and to help Geralt keep track of him. 

Off to their left, a loud concussion of strings ripped through the fog. The fog swirled, and a great scythe of blue light sliced through it. It buffeted against Geralt’s side, but passed over him and Jaskier harmlessly. Another clang of noise, and then a scream from the creature.

Geralt shoved Jaskier to one side and swung through a thickened patch of fog. He felt the drag of it on the blade, but it didn’t catch in anything solid. The claws that swiped out of the fog bank were definitely solid, and Geralt grunted with the impact. He felt the claws digging into his armored chest, but no heat followed. His armor would have an impressive set of scars, but his flesh had escaped the same fate. 

A third blast of sound and blue light let Geralt pinpoint Lan Wangji’s location in the fog. Shortly, the creature had made the same connection, and Geralt caught a flicker of Lan Wangji’s dark hair out of the corner of his eye as he dodged backwards. The monster bellowed in rage, vague shadows chasing after the suggestion of Lan Wangji’s presence in the fog. 

Geralt nudged Jaskier to get him moving, tracking the monster from the bright bursts of blue light and the corresponding howls. He knew first hand how capable Lan Wangji was in a fight, but was mildly surprised to feel the smallest pang of annoyance that the creature had apparently determined that Geralt was the less dangerous of them. He snorted out a laugh at himself and closed his eyes to better focus on his hearing. 

Jaskier’s quickly retreating footsteps and heavy breaths impacted first, and then the unmistakable whistle of a sword cutting through the air, a bright chime of metal, a soft grunt of pain. The monster’s breath was ragged and hissing, the sound of a creature that was no longer capable of closing their mouth to muffle it. Each breath was accompanied by a growling whine, somewhere between a noise a human might make and something better suited to a dog. 

A sharp whistle sounded from his left. Geralt spun automatically away from it, avoiding a lashing set of claws. He swung upward, aiming for the space directly in line with the claws, and was rewarded by a high-pitched yelp. It did sound like a foglet, though it was a larger noise than he was used to hearing. 

Displaced air and a shuffle of feet on the stones was Geralt’s only warning of Lan Wangji’s approach. He avoided aiming a reflexive strike at Lan Wangji’s neck only barely, and instead turned to put their backs together. Having an ally in a fight was not a completely novel experience, but it was unusual enough to make the back of Geralt’s neck prickle. 

“My sword goes through it,” Lan Wangji said. 

Geralt hummed. “That’s why a witcher carries silver.” 

He didn’t hear the monster approach as much as felt it, an indefinable pressure on his skin. He twisted and thrust Yrden into the ground. Violet light diffused through the heavy fog, and the creature snarled in rage as it was caught within the circle, forced by the magic to manifest its physical body.

If it was a foglet, it was the largest Geralt had ever seen, and certainly the most ancient. Its hunched figure was gray and sickly green, lichen clinging to it in curtains like shredded clothing. It opened its mouth and screamed, mouthful of crooked, needle-sharp teeth showing black in Yrden’s purple glow. 

Lan Wangji’s pearl-pale sword flashed out of the fog and passed through the foglet; even caught in the magical trap, its body shimmered and reformed around the steel blade. Lan Wangji’s responding huff sounded mildly offended. 

Geralt spun, bringing his silver blade around in a wide arc that caught the foglet in the juncture between its distended chest and sharply-jutting hip. The sword bit deeply into the flesh, and a rancid stench poured out in clouds even as the foglet howled in pain and twisted away. It slashed at Geralt with one set of claws, and then the other, each gnarled hand so large, it could have comfortably palmed Geralt’s skull. The first swing sailed over Geralt’s head, but the second caught him hard enough to jerk the sword out of the foglet’s side and send Geralt stumbling backward. 

A run of crystalline notes issued from the fog, building in tempo and volume to a single thunder of noise. The foglet slammed back against the inside of the magical trap, claws flailing madly as it gushed dark blood. Geralt regained his feet and pressed back in, aiming a sweeping upward strike at the back of the foglet’s neck. 

His sword crunched into the thick spine and the foglet gurgled out a surprised noise. The wall of fog dropped to hover at their knees, and then slowly sank down. Without the shrouding fog, the foglet was even more monstrous, its bat-like face raw and gape-jawed, eye sockets seemingly filled with glowing mist, twisted body horribly speckled with gore. 

It barked out a last shout of denial, and then toppled forward. Geralt’s sword had sunk so deep in its spine that he was pulled with it and only avoided landing face-first on its corpse by kicking out to brace his boot on the foglet’s ribs. 

Yrden collapsed with a  _ pop _ of displaced air to accompany the loud squelch of Geralt’s blade coming free. 

Lan Wangji stood in silence, his sword hovering in the air beside him, hands still poised over his instrument. He stared intently at the foglet with his eyebrows furrowed and mouth set in a tight line.

“I take if you’ve never seen one of these?” Geralt guessed, flicking the black, fetid blood off his blade. 

Lan Wangji shook his head.

“Foglet,” Geralt said. “Biggest I’ve seen. If it came through when I did and it’s really been a hundred years here, it’s had a long time to feed.” Not only a long time to feed, but it was obvious that silver blades were not used by cultivators. Even if someone had tried to take the foglet on when it was smaller, it would have laughed its way around the steel blades and made a meal out of the wielder.

Turning his head, Lan Wangji looked at his sword. His eyes narrowed marginally, a clear expression of betrayal. 

Geralt grunted. “Silver’s the only thing that’ll do it.” 

With a wide sweep of his hand, Lan Wangji dismissed his instrument. He jerked his sheath upward and the sword slid back into it with a musical ring. His eyes traced over Geralt’s silver blade and then slid down to the foglet’s corpse. Dead, it was skeletal, deformed, no less a nightmare for being still. 

“—Fucking _size_ of that thing,” Jaskier gasped out, stumbling over to Geralt’s side. He came to a halt, half bent over in sick fascination, and leaned sideways until his weight rested against Geralt’s arm. After a long moment, he announced, “We should take it back with us. If you can’t find a bounty for it, make one of your grisly trophies out of it, _gods_ , it’s massive.” 

“It will remain,” Lan Wangji said simply. The last of the unnatural fog finally dispersed, and a cautious chatter of bird song resumed on the opposite side of the lake. “For study.” 

Jaskier made a displeased noise, but Geralt nodded. “Might not’ve been the only one.” 

Lan Wangji agreed with a slow nod of his own. His eyes tracked back to Geralt’s silver sword.

“I’ll tell you how it’s done,” Geralt said. “But I’m not a smith, and Dwarven smiths who make them keep their magic a close secret.”

Shoulders slowly relaxing, Lan Wangji nodded again. He reached into his sleeve and produced a small silk pouch with a pale blue cord tied around it. Geralt watched him do it and somehow still didn’t see how he closed the pouch around the foglet’s massive corpse. The body was simply gone, and Lan Wangji straightened, tying the chord shut around the bag, which still looked empty and didn't seem to have gained any weight.

“I want one of those,” Jaskier said, voice dripping with envy that Geralt could easily understand. 

Lan Wangji paused, and then slipped the bag back into his sleeve. “I will tell you how it is done,” he said. 

~*~

“Lan  _ Zhan _ ,” Wei Wuxian complained when they returned to the campsite and Lan Wangji calmly opened the bag to somehow pour the foglet onto the ground at his feet. “You should have come to get me first!” He then stopped and peered at the corpse. Humming curiously, he crouched down and prodded at it with two fingers. 

Craning his neck to look up at Lan Wangji, he asked, “What is it?” 

Rather than answer, Lan Wangji looked to Geralt. Wei Wuxian twisted the other direction, hiking an eyebrow in inquiry. 

“Foglet. Something from our world.” He gestured vaguely between himself and Jaskier, and then over to the rock where the portal array had been drawn. 

Wei Wuxian rocked back on his heels and arranged himself in a more comfortable squat while he considered the unfamiliar creature. He made a low humming noise. “That makes sense,” he said finally. “I figured out how the portal works. It’s not a door so much as...hmm… a slit in a curtain. Even when you seal it back up again, it’s weak where it’s been torn before. A little too much pressure and—” He made a graphic ripping sound, miming a tearing motion with both hands in illustration. “This might have shown up weeks, or months— _ maybe _ even years after you were sent back through.” 

“The same thing could happen this time,” Jaskier said slowly. 

Wei Wuxian nodded. “Probably  _ will  _ happen. This mountain was where the first tear was made. The fabric here is already weak. Now there’s another rip. But don’t feel jealous! The same thing can happen on your side. You might get some of our fierce corpses!” 

“Can you kill it with steel?” 

Wei Wuxian’s hand twisted in the air expressively. “Can you ever really kill something that’s already dead?” he asked with a strange twist to his lips. “But sure. Hack it into enough pieces and it’ll stop moving eventually.” 

“Good enough for me,” Geralt said. 

Jaskier elbowed him hard. “There’s a lot of things from our world that you  _ can’t _ just hack at and expect to stop moving eventually.” 

“We’ll stay long enough to explain what we can,” Geralt said, though he couldn’t imagine how useful a few days of their time might be. What he knew about his craft he’d learned over a lifetime—more than one lifetime—and the most critical tool of his trade was one he couldn’t make on his own. 

“Great,” Jaskier said in easy agreement, but then put on his most pathetic, pleading expression and asked, “But do we have to stay in the woods the entire time?” 


	7. Chapter 7

The village was not large enough to have an inn, but a widow with no children at home took in the occasional travelers, and the entire village crowded into her yard to hear Lan Wangji’s very short announcement that the monster plaguing their lake had been slain. 

Even Geralt’s looming presence as their mythological Demon White Dog couldn’t contain the excitement that spread from one person to the next until they were dancing in the street and a celebration spontaneously developed from their nearly manic joy. Geralt had grown accustomed to a certain amount of fame—or, rather, infamy—thanks to Jaskier’s blasted music, but it was the first time he could recall being greeted with actual pleasure by strangers. An older woman even took him by both hands and pulled him into a circle while her grandchildren danced and laughed at his feet. 

Jaskier ignored his silent pleas to be rescued and laughed at him shamelessly as Geralt was passed from the grandmother to a group of younger people, likely everyone in the village who was over twenty and under fifty. Geralt was not used to being touched in a friendly way by strangers, and he found it disconcerting to be pulled into their midst, their hands curious as they tugged at his clothing and craned backwards to look up at his face. Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji were both nearly as tall as Geralt, but he was head, shoulders, and—in some cases, half a chest—above just about everyone else in the village. 

It was Wei Wuxian who finally stepped in to rescue him after Geralt had been unceremoniously handed a toddler, who immediately curled one fist around a lock of his hair and patted at his face with the other. He had three days of beard growth, and the texture apparently amused her. She giggled wildly and petted his cheek with her sticky hand while her mother looked on indulgently, and a nearby gaggle of mothers laughed.

Smiling broadly, Wei Wuxian retrieved the toddler. She shrieked at the separation, her laughter turning immediately to anger and face flushing scarlet. Geralt ended up bent nearly in half to accommodate her grip on his hair while Wei Wuxian and the child’s mother tried to convince her to let go. 

“The mighty Butcher of Blaviken brought low by a screaming one year-old,” Jaskier teased when Geralt had escaped the crowd in favor of a chair tucked into a corner of the courtyard. 

Geralt glowered at him, and Jaskier laughed softly, leaning sideways to bump their shoulders together. 

“Different kind of reception than we normally get.” 

“Hm.” 

Even when the beast he’d brought down had been preying on children and terrorizing livestock, Geralt rarely even received a cursory  _ thank you _ at the end of a contract. A handful of coins, and maybe a night in a bed and a warm meal, and then sighs of relief the next morning when they road out of town. One encounter with the locals was hardly enough to form an opinion, but the unfamiliar reaction only made him feel strangely heavy. Being spit at in the street was hardly pleasant, but somehow, the bright smiles and the children being encouraged to dance around his feet was no better. 

Lan Wangji sat stoically in a chair a short distance away, surrounded at a respectful distance by the village’s elders, Old Chen at his right hand, all of them looking very grave as they addressed him with questions that he answered quietly. Despite his more familiar appearance, he was apparently less approachable than the stranger they had spent their lives treating as a Boogie Man, and the majority of the crowd stayed firmly away from him. 

“It’s the novelty,” Jaskier reassured him. He had his lute across his chest, fingers playing idly with the strings while he tuned it. 

“Mm.” 

As Jaskier hummed each note, a young boy of maybe ten or twelve came pelting over and thrust a ceramic jar in Geralt’s direction, the liquid inside sloshing over his hand. He didn’t seem to notice, his frankly curious gaze locked on Geralt’s scarred face.

“Are you really a demon?” he asked too-loudly. Before Geralt could answer, he added excitedly, “Do you know the Yiling Patriarch?” 

“I bet he does!” Wei Wuxian announced, leaning down so he was at the boy’s eye level. “He’s probably gotten in sword fights with him!” 

Mouth falling open, the boy whipped his head back to Geralt, wide-eyed and waiting for confirmation. Geralt guessed this was another mystical demon and hiked his eyebrow at the kid. 

“What do you think?” 

“Woooow,” the boy said, and then spun on his heel and ran back to his friends. “The Demon White Dog totally ate the Yiling Patriarch!” he shouted. 

Wei Wuxian choked on his own laughter and Geralt sighed. He had no idea how the kid had jumped from swordfight to cannibalism, but a demon cannibal was at least more in keeping with his usual image. 

Plucking out a mournful tune, Jaskier sang, “The Patriarch of Yiling never had a chance! Oh, woe is the demon who gets just a glimpse of the White Dog’s teeth.” 

Wei Wuxian’s laughter rose until Lan Wangji was summoned over by the noise. While Jaskier continued his fanciful tale of the Demon White Dog doing battle with the unknown Yiling Patriarch and devouring him whole, Lan Wangji’s right eye twitched, and then the opposite eyebrow rose very slowly up his forehead. He cut his eyes at Wei Wuxian, whose laughter finally overwhelmed Jaskier’s performance until he lost track of his melody and dissolved into happy giggles of his own. 

Settling in for a long night, Geralt sniffed the jar in his hand and took a deep pull of the alcohol. It was unfamiliar, sharp and astringent, but he’d swallowed far worse without complaint. He drained most of the jar before Jaskier stole it out of his hand to finish it, sucking air in through his teeth at the burn of the harsh liquor. Wei Wuxian looked both impressed and intrigued when Geralt looked back up, and in short order, he had retrieved several more jars of the liquor and a chair. 

~*~

Geralt had to admit that Wei Wuxian stacked up in the top handful of non-witchers who had ever tried to outdrink him, but by the time the celebration had wound down to scattered clumps of quiet conversation, Wei Wuxian was swaying in his seat. Jaskier had given up several jars earlier and had dropped to the ground to lean against Geralt’s leg, where he’d fallen into a snuffling sleep in moments. 

Wei Wuxian gave Geralt a bleary-eyed stare and mumbled, “Sure you’re  _ not  _ a demon?” 

“Depends on your definition of demon,” Geralt said. 

Wei Wuxian nodded sagely. “Definitely then,” he said, and then slithered out of his chair to his hands and knees. At Geralt’s side, Lan Wangji shifted in some alarm, reaching out immediately to help Wei Wuxian back to his feet, but Wei Wuxian batted his hands away with a petulant whine and crawled closer. He shoved unceremoniously between Lan Wangji’s knees and draped himself across the other man’s lap. 

“...Rematch,” Wei Wuxian muttered, voice already drifting off. In the next slow blink, he was asleep with his arms looped around Lan Wangji’s waist. 

At Geralt’s feet, Jaskier muttered something unintelligible in his sleep and cuddled closer, one arm hooking around Geralt’s calf. 

“They’re going to be miserable in the morning,” Geralt observed. 

Lan Wangji nodded. Geralt would have expected stiffness from him in his current position, but he’d relaxed instead, one hand wrapping gently around the back of Wei Wuxian’s head and the other resting on his arm. 

Geralt offered him the last jar of liquor. It had a few swallows remaining, and the liquor swished in the jar's round belly as Geralt shook it. As he had done all night, Lan Wangji shook his head in mute refusal. Geralt finished it off and set the jar aside, going still when the motion jostled Jaskier just enough for him to reach up with an annoyed sound and capture Geralt’s hand. He pulled it down to use as a pillow. 

After a very long moment of silence filled only with the soft murmur of strangers’ voices and the pop of the nearby fire, Geralt slowly asked, “How long do cultivators live?” 

If Lan Wangji was startled or confused by the question, he didn’t show it. “It is possible to cultivate immortality,” he said. “Many die young. If they are not killed, and they maintain their cultivation, they will live a long time.” 

Geralt hummed. He could have left the conversation there—Lan Wangji did not seem inclined to ask for any information in return, or to need an explanation for Geralt’s question. Geralt watched Jaskier nuzzle against his forearm, mouth moving slowly, wordlessly, firelight flickering over his face. 

“No witcher has ever lived long enough to die of old age. Don’t know it’s even possible,” Geralt said, more to himself. He moved slowly, keeping himself hunched slightly to the right so he didn’t disturb Jaskier’s sleep. Lan Wangji made no response, though his eyes were steady on Geralt’s face. “Is it worth it?”

For a long moment, it seemed that Lan Wangji would let the question fade into the evening air without reply. He lifted his hand to brush Wei Wuxian’s hair back from his neck. “Wei Ying died. For sixteen years, he was an absence.” Lan Wangji looked him directly in the eye, perhaps the first time he’d done so in their short acquaintance. “It is worth it.” 

Geralt looked down at the sleeping figure, conscious again of the ever-present scent of necromancy clinging to him. He made no comment, and the popping fire again filled the space where their conversation had been. 

Jaskier rolled his head restlessly on his uncomfortable pillow, mouth coming to rest on the back of Geralt’s hand. Geralt leaned sideways to hook a finger around his pack and dragged his blanket out of it one handed. He eased it under Jaskier’s head, freeing his arm over Jaskier’s murmured protests, and then very slowly let his hand rest on Jaskier’s hair. 

~*~

Lan Wangji drew his fingers down Geralt’s silver sword and flipped through the notes he and Wei Wuxian had compiled over the last week. The  qiankun bag at his side twitched restlessly. It had grown more and more agitated the long they delayed, and they had been forced to play to calm the spirit inside more often as the days had passed. The two visitors had been obviously curious about the bag and its contents, but Lan Wangji had offered no explanation, and Wei Wuxian had laughed it off as being their pet when Jaskier had asked.

They could not delay their own quest any longer, and Geralt and Jaskier needed to be sent home before they could devote their attention back to it. The silver sword had proven to be… recalcitrant to being tested. The arrays they had laid on it had all slid off like water, and, despite it having no spirit of its own, Lan Wangji had grown convinced that it was mocking them. They could study it for the next decade and likely learn nothing more about how it had been made. 

“We’re close by to Yiling,” Wei Wuxian said softly. His tone was carefully measured to seem casual, but Lan Wangji did not need an explanation as to why he might be reluctant to return there. “If we’re going to tear another hole and weaken the fabric anyway, might as well do it in the Burial Mounds. At least anything that comes through will have something other than helpless children to prey on.” 

“Mn,” Lan Wangji agreed, but he watched Wei Wuxian’s face carefully. “You could remain here.”

Wei Wuxian gave him an unimpressed look that morphed into a too-cheerful smile. “What’s the matter Hanguang-jun? Don’t trust me too close to the seat of my power?” he asked with an exaggerated flourish and suggestive wink. 

“Wei Ying.” 

“It will be fine, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian said, dropping the act, but not his smile. “I’ll see if I can detail some ghosts in the area to keep watch on the place. When this is all over, you and I can figure out how to make a sword like this and go back.” 

As if anything could be so simple. Lan Wangji nodded. Wei Wuxian leaned over the table to capture Lan Wangji’s hand where it still rested on the seemingly-ordinary sword. He picked it up and then curled over the table to set a tiny kiss to the thumbnail. He looked up at Lan Wangji as he did, and then slowly kissed each fingernail while Lan Wangji’s face burned scarlet. 

Laughing softly, Wei Wuxian set his hand down and hopped to his feet. “I’ll go get our guests ready to go.” 

Lan Wangji jerked his chin down in a nod and watched him leave, heart still fluttering under his ribs from only that simple contact. It was an effort not to call Wei Wuxian back—to drag him back and firmly close the door—but they had more pressing duties. He remembered Geralt’s rough voice grating over the question,  _ Is it worth it? _ And how much he had been unable to say about half of his life spent carrying regret like it was a living thing clinging to his shoulders.

He let out a slow breath and carefully packed the manuscripts away. The two strangers had been generous with their knowledge, both in broad and specific terms, and Lan Wangji had dutifully recorded every word, even Jaskier’s music and folktales for the wisdom that might be hidden in the lines. In turn, Lan Wangji had described the making of a qiankun bag, though it would hardly be of use to either of them unless they cultivated a golden core. Geralt had picked up the trick of Wei Wuxian’s talismans quickly enough, adapting his own magic to their use, and they had at least been able to create a stack of them in recompense for the pages of information on all manner of odd creatures. He would have thought Jaskier’s illustrations of the various creatures found commonly in their world to be only fantasy if he hadn’t seen the foglet himself. 

Lan Wangji had briefed the village elders the night before on the potential of more unfamiliar creatures slipping through the weakened tear, and Wei Wuxian had spent most of the week in the forest, applying talismans and carving arrays into the rocks in an effort to contain anything that did come through. They had both examined Geralt’s magical trap for a more long term application, but it would take time to translate his strange magic over into a form they could use. 

He found the three of them waiting in Madam Jiangxi’s courtyard with the Madam herself loading Wei Wuxian down with packages of food and lecturing Geralt at length to keep them safe on the road, blissfully unaware that she was currently patting the Yiling Patriarch on the cheek and referring to him as a  _ sweet boy _ . From the delighted glint in his eye, Wei Wuxian was very amused by it.

Lan Wangji did not argue with her when she attempted to refuse payment. He set the ingot firmly on the table and only bowed to her when she tried to give it back. She finally tucked the ingot into her collar and followed them to the road, waving cheerfully. They passed through the sleepy village without incident, and Lan Wangji did not look over to the small house where he’d first seen the crowd gathered. He had not seen the young mother in the week they had remained, and did not begrudge her any bitterness when they had been only hours too late to save her son. 

~*~

“This is a cheerful place,” Jaskier said as they passed into the perpetual gloom of the Burial Mounds.

“The most cheerful mass grave I’ve ever lived in,” Wei Wuxian agreed brightly, blithely ignoring Jaskier’s sharp look and offering no further explanations. 

They had stayed the previous night in Yiling, where Geralt’s presence had drawn a crowd of curious onlookers held at bay only by Lan Wangji’s most forbidding stare. The witcher had been obviously uncomfortable with the attention, though Jaskier had lapped it up, straying away from their table confidently with his lute. The innkeeper had encouraged him shamelessly, his inn reaping the benefits of the unexpected guests, every table and room packed full with the crowd spilling out onto the street. 

Lan Wangji and Geralt had retired to the room early, but Wei Wuxian and Jaskier had remained downstairs, luxuriating in the attention. Jaskier had spilled a bag of coins, silver nuggets, and two silver ingots in front of Geralt in the morning with the air of a cat bringing in a dead rat. 

“Not like it’s useful to us back home,” Geralt had said.

“It’s still silver,” Jaskier had argued, but in the end, he’d only kept one ingot and handful of the coins as some kind souvenir before dumping the rest in Wei Wuxian’s lap. 

Wei Wuxian did not lead them through to the Demon Subdue Palace where he’d once made an uneasy home, but took them off the path and deeper into the trees. He spun his flute as they walked, and Jaskier plucked nervously at his lute. They hadn’t seen a single ghost or walking corpse, but the Burial Mounds were so steeped with resentful energy, that it had been known to make even non-cultivators sick with panic. Geralt had drawn his silver sword almost as soon as they passed under the twisted trees, and he had a stalking kind of posture as they moved deeper into the Burial Mounds. He didn’t have a golden core, but whatever means he used to sense and control energy were quite obviously on high alert. 

After the third time Geralt glanced behind them, Lan Wangji stepped up to his side. “He is an ally,” he said. 

Wen Ning, Wei Wuxian’s so-called Ghost General, had been following them at a discreet distance since the village, but he had eased closer once they’d left Yiling proper and crossed the invisible boundary into the Burial Mounds. Geralt hummed low in his chest in acknowledgement of Lan Wangji’s words, but he didn’t relax his vigilance, and Wen Ning kept his distance.

Wei Wuxian drew to a halt in the center of a clearing. An old, rusted sword stood upright in the middle of a blackened circle that spanned most of the clearing. Not even the scrubby brown grass had survived inside of it, and the sight of it made something in Lan Wangji’s chest squeeze tight against his ribs. 

Without appearing to notice any discomfort, Wei Wuxian strolled into that scorched circle. He grabbed the sword in a careless sweep and shoved his flute into his belt. Nodding in satisfaction, he turned to face them with a too-wide smile. 

“This will be a good place. You two ready to go back?” 

Geralt and Jaskier were silent for a long time, Geralt’s restless eyes on the trees surrounding them where the dead had started to gather in the shadows, still out of sight, but their hatred was palpable in the air. 

“Does it make a difference?” Jaskier asked softly. “If we go back?” 

Geralt looked at him sharply.

“Travel and kill monsters there, travel and kill monsters here. You swing your sword, I sing. Does it matter?” 

“This is not our world,” Geralt said slowly. 

Jaskier shrugged. “Could be.” 

“People would miss you.” 

“There would be weeping in the streets,” Jaskier agreed solemnly. “A hundred maidens would cry their hearts out and pine the rest of their lives.” 

Grunting, Geralt said, “Only a hundred?” 

“Do you want to stay?” Jaskier pressed softly, stepping up close to his side. 

For no reason that Lan Wangji could readily determine, Geralt looked back at him before returning his gaze to Jaskier’s face. “Do you want to?” 

Jaskier shrugged. “Could be an adventure.” 

“You’d never be able to tell your adoring fans about it.” He watched Jaskier’s face for a long time before saying, “Let’s go home.” 

The smile that bloomed on Jaskier’s face was enough to remind Lan Wangji of the fragile warmth in Geralt’s mind where Jaskier took up space amid the dark landscape, a furnace in comparison to the chill that surrounded it. He doubted Geralt understood that he was a blazing light that suffused most of Jaskier’s mind in turn. 

Jaskier laughed quietly and turned to Lan Wangji. “Are we going to be able to speak our own language when we get there?” 

Lan Wangji opened his mouth to reply and then hesitated. The link he had created had itself been only temporary, a conduit through which he had dropped the language to facilitate communication. At the time, it had been more important to open up a line of understanding between them, and he had not considered whether it would be permanent. He had not rearranged their minds in any way that would prevent them from accessing their own language, only layered his language on top of it. The two should merge, given time and use.

“En,” he said finally. “You may need to make an effort at first.” 

“Once we start working the arrays, the locals are likely to get… interested,” Wei Wuxian said. “Keep an eye out while I work.” 

~*~

The portal came to life with a snarling growl, deep and ominous compared to the familiar _whoosh_ and _snap_ of the portals Geralt was used to. After a moment, the swirling darkness resolved into a pine forest, gray with morning. 

“It won’t go back to where you started,” Wei Wuxian said apologetically. “But it’s anchored in the same world.” 

Geralt grunted. At least the difference in the way time flowed would mean that Roach was likely still waiting at the cave entrance, bored, but otherwise unaware that she had been temporarily abandoned. The ‘locals’ had indeed taken an interest in the portal’s creation, and had only grown more frenzied with the rush of energy just before it opened. Lan Wangji was being kept busy, his sword flickering in the air and the strings of his instrument singing almost continuously.

The “ally” who had been following them for days had jumped in at the first of the attacks and Geralt had stayed on the opposite side of the clearing to keep from accidentally taking his head off. One look at the black veins creeping up his neck and his eyes, black all the way through, had been enough to explain why he’d been mistaken for a ‘fierce corpse’ when he’d first tumbled through the portal, Cat running hot in his veins. 

“Don’t linger,” Wei Wuxian said, gesturing broadly to the portal. “It was good to meet you… witcher,” he added, pronouncing the word very carefully. 

Geralt adjusted his grip on his silver sword and looked through the portal again. Before he could think better of it, he flipped it around and offered it to Wei Wuxian hilt-first. “Don’t linger,” he repeated back when Wei Wuxian hesitated. 

Wei Wuxian took the blade slowly, testing his grip on the worn-leather wrapped hilt. He nodded. “Try not to trip through any more portals,” he suggested.

“Maybe discourage your people from summoning the Demon White Dog again,” Jaskier replied with a laugh. “He might not be in a good mood next time.” 

Geralt rolled his eyes heavenward. He jerked his chin toward Lan Wangji, still fending off hordes of the dead. Wei Wuxian nodded, grinned. He hefted Geralt’s silver sword to rest on his shoulder and pointed at the portal.

“I hate portals,” Geralt huffed, but he accepted Jaskier’s grip on his arm, and they stepped through together. 


	8. Chapter 8

Epilogue

They stumbled through on the other side upright. The trip back had been no more pleasant than the initial journal, but it had been expected and they came out the same way they’d gone in, Jaskier holding tight to his arm and on both feet. 

Jaskier stumbled away from him at once, arms windmilling to maintain his balance, hands seeking blindly for support. He ran into a tree and immediately wrapped both arms around it, moaning. 

Geralt swayed in place for several seconds before he dropped to one knee, taking in great gulps of air to hold the morning’s spiced porridge down. Jaskier slid noisily down the tree, clothing scraping on the bark as he dropped to his ass in the underbrush. 

The portal remained open for a moment longer, and Geralt looked back to see only a blur of browns and grays, the world beyond moving so quickly that he witnessed a pair of sunrises between one blink and the next. It closed with a pop and a rush of cold air, leaving the forest unnaturally still in its wake. 

Geralt shifted his weight to bring his other knee down and relaxed until his hips rested between his ankles. Once he caught his breath and his head stopped swimming, he would put Wei Wuxian’s talismans up around the area. It would hopefully be enough to trap any of the ghosts from the Burial Mounds who wandered through, as well as providing a barrier to any of the monsters from his own world making the trip. He suspected anything he dealt with on a normal basis would be surprised by their welcome if they did make it to the other side. 

“Let’s…. Let’s not do that again,” Jaskier said. He slid his pack off his shoulders and set it carefully aside before dropping onto his back with his arms flung wide.

“Hm.” 

“Hey. I offered to stay.” 

Geralt twisted around to watch Jaskier’s chest lift and fall. He swallowed hard, his chest tightening strangely, and then rose up on his knees and grabbed Jaskier by one wrist. 

“What are you—?!” Jaskier shouted as Geralt yanked him over. 

Catching his cheek, Geralt pressed their mouths together. Underneath him, Jaskier went rabbit-still, even his chest freezing. A slow tremor spread outward and he lifted one hand to rest lightly on Geralt’s upper arm. When Geralt pulled back, his expression was cautious, lips parted and a delicate flush spread over his cheeks. 

“Geralt?”

“Hm.”

“No, I need Real People Words right now,” Jaskier said, his hand tightening on Geralt’s arm. The tremor had spread until it felt like Jaskier was vibrating under him. He let his hand drift up Geralt’s arm to settle lightly on his neck. His thumb traced slow circles on Geralt’s neck. 

Maybe Jaskier’s stillness was not the rabbit’s stillness, but the wolf’s. Geralt felt out of his depth, hunted. Sex was a simple thing that he ranked on the same scale as food and sleep. This was not sex. Jaskier had made his availability for sex known from the first time they’d met, and Geralt had rebuffed him every time, not prepared to handle the consequences.

“One of us is going to outlive the other,” Geralt said slowly. The words dragged on his tongue. “If I don’t end up in some monster’s stomach, I may be alive for a very long time. The monster’s stomach is more likely. One day, I will go out on a hunt, and I won’t come back.”

“And if you don’t die on a hunt, I’ll grow old. One day, I’ll go to sleep and I won’t wake up,” Jaskier said. “But you know it’s just as likely that if you end up in a monster’s stomach, I’ll be right there with you. What does that have to do with anything?” 

“You deserve better,” Geralt said. He reached up to curl his scarred hand around Jaskier’s. “Someday, you’ll find someone better… and I might not want to let you go.” 

Making an exasperated noise, Jaskier pulled him down and kissed him hard. He bit Geralt’s lower lip hard enough to draw blood and shoved him away again. Geralt dropped to his side, and when Jaskier said nothing, rolled slowly to his back. 

“Do you think I’ve been following you for all these years for the conversation? Curiosity? The joys of sleeping on the ground?” Jaskier demanded. He heaved himself upright and then threw his leg over Geralt’s hips and straddled him, settling down comfortably. “How many more damn love songs did you need?” 

While Geralt just stared at him, stupefied, Jaskier sang the refrain from one of his popular ballads, and then another, cheerful and irreverent, and a third, one of the lonely, melancholy things that he almost never performed, but that Geralt had heard in every stage of creation. 

“Shall I continue?” Jaskier asked, his voice fading on the air. “Let me go? As if you could get rid of me.”

Geralt let his chest empty and reached up to pull Jaskier down once more. “Sorry,” he offered.

“Idiot,” Jaskier said, but he kissed Geralt again, tongue slipping out slowly to tease at the seam between his lips. When he sat back up, he was flushed with pleasure and grinning. “You’re lucky I didn’t leave you for Wei Wuxian.” 

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Not even _you_ could have managed that.” 

“I’m very charming,” Jaskier argued.

“Hm.” 

Jaskier laughed. “You made me wait for you for _years_ , Geralt.”

“Sorry,” Geralt repeated.

“You could have at least waited until we had a bed.” He tilted forward until his forehead was pressed to Geralt’s shoulder and then slowly stretched out along his side. He fit neatly with his head tucked to Geralt’s neck, breath warm on Geralt’s skin. “I would have waited longer.” 

Geralt turned to bury his nose in Jaskier’s hair, the scene of the soap from the inn in Yiling unfamiliar over Jaskier’s comfortable scent. He curled his arm around Jaskier’s shoulders and tucked him in tighter.

**Author's Note:**

> That's all! <3 Thank you everyone and please let me know what you think! Don't forget to go visit my [artist](https://sweetlittlevampire.tumblr.com/) if you haven't already! :)


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